Translations
by Cheryl W
Summary: Dean’s failure to communicate lands the brothers into trouble…again and again. No slash.
1. Possession Obsession

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Thanks to heather03nmg for encouraging me to pick up the gauntlet again and post this crazy tale. Also, please make sure you read the author's note at the end of this chapter.

Summary:Dean's failure to communicate lands the brothers into trouble…again and again and again.

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Chapter 1: Possession Obsession

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As Sam Winchester pulled the Impala around the Simmons' barn and saw the collapsed shed, he cursed himself for not listening to his gut instincts, for leaving Dean to guard the beast in the shed by himself. Skidding the Impala to a halt on the loose dirt driveway, Sam was out of the car, running for the remnants of the small building before the engine even fell silent, yelling "Dean!" as he approached.

His breath trapped in his chest, his eyes flickered over the splintered wood, cracked beams and shattered glass that had once been a structure, a structure that had been an impromptu cage for a ravenous wolf, a structure that he had _ordered_ his brother to not enter before he got back with the herbs and powders. Stumbling forward, Sam began tossing the destruction aside, terror and desperation thrumming through him simultaneously as he sought what lay underneath, _who_ he feared lay beneath the devastation. His heart stopped as he levered a section of the collapsed wall aside to reveal a portion of the planked floor coated in a dark fluid he knew too well. Blood. "Dean!" he screamed, frantic now in his motions, his hands clawing at the debris circling the stain.

Encountering a beam in his way, he bent over and heaved it aside with a grunt of exertion. It was then he saw it, the wolf, its lifeless eyes like marbles, its neck sliced, blood matting its coat, its journey of evil brutally ended. "Dean," Sam breathed in answer, in need, in worry, even in anger.

When a voice called his name, he spun around, the fear coursing through him spiking higher because the voice, it wasn't the right one, wasn't Dean's. At the edge of the debris, Brent Simmons, the landowner's twenty one year old son, stood, his eyes openly telegraphing his anxiety. "Where's my brother?" Sam demanded, a dark edge to his tone as he stalked toward the man who seemed so much younger than himself, who did not carry his years as heavily as Sam carried his own twenty three. "Is he hurt?!" Sam pressed, unaware of the dangerous set of his features, he felt some small surprise when Brent took a fearful step back from him. Indifferent to the younger man's reaction, Sam closed the distance between them quickly, grasped the younger man's shoulders tightly and roared, "Answer me!" beginning to fear the worst by Brent's silence.

"I…he…" Brent stammered, feeling his mouth go dry at the horrible responsibility that had suddenly fallen on his shoulders. '_Why didn't I have Frank come get Sam?'_ he chastised himself, knowing his elder brother wouldn't be shaking under Sam's intense gaze, trembling under the iron grip of the man only two years his senior.

"Brent! Tell me! Is Dean OK? Is he in the house?!" Sam yelled, shaking the stunned man, needing answers before his heart exploded in his chest.

"He's….I think….we think… he's possessed," Brent grasped out, feeling foolish at the words, at even the thought. He didn't believe in ghosts, in possessions, had come to believe in evil wolves by necessity only. But now to say the word possessed, to believe what he was saying?! How had things gotten so strange in just a week's time, a week since the Winchesters had arrived in town.

"Possessed?!" Sam stuttered, his mind on full logic mode. The wolf, whatever had motivated its evil rampage, it hadn't been possessed. 'Right?!?", the turn of events putting his and Dean's conviction now in doubt.

"He's in the house…we were going to take him to the hospital but…we wanted to talk to you first and then….well, then….he…." Brent offered what he could, what he knew, but found he couldn't say the rest. It was too surreal. Besides, his audience was running full out for his house, leaving him to follow in his dusty wake.

Bursting through the farm house door at mach one, Sam encountered Brent's brother, Frank, washing his hands at the sink, the water turning red as it streamed down the rancher's callused, blood coated hands. Fear and panic welled in Sam and he could only utter one word, "Dean?!" as he run forward, intent on turning the house upside down in search of his brother if necessary.

Within five steps he had charged into the Simmons living room area only to come up short at the sight before him. Immediately his eyes were drawn to Dean who stood on the left side of the room, swaying on his feet, his hair matted with blood, the same ugly substance congealing on his right cheekbone, his clothing covered in dirt, his t-shirt torn on the left side of his torso, revealing ravaged skin that still leaked blood. It took Sam a moment more to register that another person occupied the room. Jack, Brent's father, stood in the middle of the room, his bloody hands raised unthreateningly but his good intensions were spoiled by the sight of a knife clutched tightly in his right hand, it's blade glistening red.

"I'm trying to help you," Jack quietly vowed, taking a step forward, causing Dean to stumble backwards and fall back against a cabinet filled with china dinnerware, letting the structure keep him upright.

Before his presence registered with either occupant of the room, Sam swept in like a northeastern gale of wind, brutally bending Jack's wrist to nearly the breaking point as he disarmed him and gave the man that he thought he could trust an angry shove backwards. "What are you doing?!" he shouted, stepping between his brother and the man that seemed more likely a suspect of possession.

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Having been on his track team, Brent entered his house only seconds after Sam, blew by Frank and stumbled to a halt at his living room's threshold. In shock he watched the younger Winchester rip a knife from his father's hand like he was simply taking candy from a baby. Even more unnerving was the way the younger man stood hulking over his father, Sam's anger filling the room, causing even Jack Simmons to hunch his shoulders in fearful submission.

His father's words were rushed, high, wavering. "He's….he's out of his head," his one hand raised to point toward Dean Winchester who leaned heavily against the china cabinet, giving the impression that the cabinet was the only thing stopping him from crumpling to the floor. "Came to talking…." Jack's eyes landed on Dean and he swallowed, "talking nonsense. You said the wolf…that it might be….maybe was….possessed by something evil. The wolf…I saw it, it's dead and now your brother…he isn't acting sane!"

Unnerved, Brent took a step backwards when Dean, as if to prove Jack's point, began to unleash the gibberish he had been uttering since he regained consciousness ten minutes ago. Dean Winchester's tone was harsh, his green eyes searing out a glare and part of Brent wished he understood what Dean was saying, what the possessed man _thought_ he was saying. Brent knew some Spanish, some curse words in German, but what Dean Winchester now spoke was not either language, was nothing Brent had ever heard….well, except on one of those horror movies when someone got possessed, started speaking in tongues

Dean's brother's reaction, however, drew Brent's attention. The way the tall man stiffened at his brother's ravings, swung around to face his sibling, surprise, worry and fear flickering across his face before he swept it under a steady calm mask. Raising his hands in a gesture to ease the tension of his injured brother, Sam adopted a gentle timber in his words as he made an effort to soothe his possessed brother. "Dean, just calm down."

However, the words, the tone seemed to incite Dean, causing him to make a heated response, his trembling finger rising to point accusingly at Jack, his brows drawn together in righteous anger. Sam took the incomprehensive reply in stride, advanced a few measured steps toward his brother, worry creasing his features but there was no raging panic, no wild dash for some silver, no demands for garlic or whatever else repelled the possessed. Instead, Sam's next words were calmer, even gentler, almost as if he could guess at what his brother _meant_ to say but somehow couldn't.

"No one's going to hurt you, Dean," the younger brother reassured, sneaking another step closer to his unhinged sibling.

Whatever Dean's reply was, it was spat out with increasing anger. A fire flickered in the injured man's eyes, overshadowing the gloss of pain, his chin jutting out to indicate Jack when his accusatory hand fell to his side under, Brent hazarded, an onslaught of exhaustive pain. Having been the one to pull Dean from the collapsed shed, Brent had gotten a real good look at the wounds that marred the man's body. It seemed a miracle that Dean could be on his feet right now, even awake. '_Maybe getting possessed heals you…gives you extra strength…_' Brent mused, still wide eyed at the unbelievable scene unfolding in his very own living room.

Sam shifted on his feet, reminding Brent of the way he always acted when his own father was doling out a lecture that he deserved. "Dean…" Sam began and Brent watched Sam's face fill with remorse, worry and concern for his brother. Visibly swallowing, the younger Winchester gently pointed out, "Dean, you're covered in blood. Why don't we get you to a …"

Watching the older Winchester sibling adamantly shake his head, Brent needed no translation to the words that followed that motion, knowing they unmistakably were a stringent denial.

"Alright, no hospital, no doctor," Sam soothingly conceded, edging forward, closing the distance that separated him from his brother. "But I need to stitch you up, Dean, clean your wounds."

Likening Sam's tone of voice to a horse wrangler's, Brent had harbored the hope that Dean would lose the wild look of a cornered animal. But that hope was short lived when the eldest Winchester responded in a hard edged tone of gibberish, his hand again singling out Brent's father.

A pained flicker of a smile made an appearance on Sam's face, as he ran his hand through his hair. "Well, Dean, that's because you freaked him out, dude," Sam said, as if he could actually carry on a conversation with his insane brother.

Maybe it was his younger brother's fleeting sad, worried smile, maybe it was the vulnerability that even Brent could sense in Sam that broke through to Dean. The wild eyed look began to fade from the green eyes and when Dean unleashed more incomprehensive words, Brent, by Dean's gentle tone, would have sworn the words were meant to soothe Sam.

Finding his own muscles easing at the calmer tone of the crazed stranger, Brent was surprised to find Sam Winchester's stance had become rigid, as if he was bracing for some horrific reaction.

"You're….….Dean, well, ..you're speaking in Latin," Sam gently said, his remorse telegraphed by the tilt of his head even as he reached out a hand toward his brother's right shoulder. But Dean swatted the hand away in angry frustration, letting loose what could only be a protest …..in Latin.

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TBC

Author's Note: I'm not big on translations, or subtitles, or perfecting verb tenses of languages I speak let alone those I don't speak. That being said, if those things rank pretty highly with you, you probably don't want to continue reading this story because I have absolutely no intention of brushing up on my Latin, of littering the story with asterisks leading to translations or worrying about Dean saying words/phrases that don't exist in the Latin dictionary.

Instead, this story will play out like our American movies that are supposedly set in another country but the actors are all speaking English and the signs and documents are also in English. Assume Dean is speaking in Latin, (I'll let you know if (or do I mean _when?)_ he reverts back to English) and just accept the foolish notion that Dean can still come out with Deanisms (how do you like that word?!) even with a long dead language. Yes, it's a stretch which is why I'm warning you now to leave your Latin dictionary and grammar rules in your other pants.

So, that being said, if you want to stick around for more of the tale, I would be delighted and honored.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	2. Cult Following

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the awesome responses to Chapter 1!! I really wasn't sure if anyone would like this storyline. Let me tell you, it's a real struggle to find something original to pen because there are so many awesome plots being played out here at ffnet by so many wonderfully talented writers. Glad I could hit upon something new.

Again, if you're looking for a lesson in Latin, a masterpiece of grammatical correctness or subtitles, this is not the story for you. If you're into Dean talking in a dead language that the people he encounters just don't get, and really don't seem to appreciate, then please tag along for the ride.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 2: Cult Followings

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"You're….….Dean, well, ..you're speaking in Latin," Sam gently said, remorse telegraphed by the tilt of his head even as he reached out a hand toward his brother's right shoulder.

But Dean swatted the hand away in angry frustration, letting loose a protest …..in Latin. "Stop screwing around, Sam! I know what Latin sounds like!"

"I know you know the difference between English and Latin….usually," Sam responded, his tone soft, apologetic. "But Dean, it looks like you took a pretty bad blow to your head." Slowly he raised his hand to his brother's head, let his fingers skim across Dean's blood stained skin.

Though he knew Sam had barely even touched the wound, Dean couldn't help wincing at the contact, his head threatening to implode on his next breath. Sam's eyes flashed in sympathetic pain as he held up his blood covered fingers for Dean's inspection. '_Thanks for the visuals, Sammy_,' Dean snidely thought but felt subconscious about speaking, about maybe confirming what Sam was saying, that he had gone all AM…all talk radio..in a dead language. '_More like the language of the dead. Just great, it's not bad enough I've been known to spend quality time with reapers, now I'm spewing Latin like some…some geekboy!'_

Unwilling to break eye contact with his brother, Sam called over his shoulder to the other cast in the play unfolding in the Simmons' living room. "Was he unconscious at all?"

Jack Simmons voice was surprisingly concerned when he answered, "Yeah, when we found him he was unconscious. He didn't wake up when we carried him into the house, was out for …I don't know, half an hour or so. And then when he came to…he was like this, making no sense."

For all the effort Sam put into deconstructing his brother's walls, he was never really prepared when the façade fell, when the real Dean Winchester slipped out of the shadows. That specter made an appearance now, casting a crestfallen look upon his brother's pale features, sending a sharp piercing pain into Sam's gut. When Dean unleashed inventive Latin words twisted into curses, Sam knew that he didn't really need to know his brother's words, he knew the tone, the frustration, the railing against another handful of losing cards. Instantly he wanted to make things right for Dean, to ease his brother's pain, to wipe away the besieged expression in the green eyes.

"Alright, we'll figure this out, Dean," Sam reassured, raising his hands in a gesture of placation, praying that his own uncertainty was masked.

Pushing off of the cabinet, angry frustration giving him strength, Dean stood upright by his own willpower, though the room spun for a quick second before stilling. With eyes blazing, he heatedly threw the Latin words at Sam. "Don't treat me like I'm four, Sam!"

"I'm not, Dean! I'm treating you like you're barely keeping your feet under you, bleeding from who knows how many wounds and a little out of your head!" Recognizing that Dean was in no mood for any lies, Sam welded the truth, betting that Dean would find some relief at being handled the task of dealing with his little brother's unearthed fears.

"Nice," Dean snarled back, not liking Sam's choice of words, even if he couldn't dispute them. He abandoned his brave stance, because in all honesty it was exacting too much energy from him, energy that was wasted because Sam wasn't buying what he was selling this time, at all. Leaning back against the cabinet in defeat, Dean let his head rest on the glass window of the curio cabinet, wishing that his head would stop trying to kill him long enough for him to hear his own words, to _know, _contrary to what he was hearing himself say in his head, that he wasn't speaking English. Wishing also that Sam would wipe that pitying, worried look off of his face, would stop shifting on his feet, biting his lip, looking at him like he was broken and it was up to him to fix him.

"So he's not possessed?" the voice startled them both, made them remember that they were not alone. Simultaneously, their joint attention focused on a confused Frank Simmons.

Forcing himself to turn from Dean, Sam faced his audience. "Ah, no," he answered, clearing his throat, adopting his most calm, sincere, I'm-not-crazy expression. "I think he has a concussion and it must have jarred something and now he's talking in Latin." At the eldest Simmons still confused expression, Sam tacked on, "Because he knows Latin, well, like he knows English." Still his audience seemed unconvinced that holy water was not needed. "And he knows Latin because he studied to be an archeologist, you know like Indiana Jones," Sam explained, proud of his quick thinking, tossing a smile into the formula for good measure, certain that he would win them over with that weapon coupled with his movie tie in information.

But his audience was a hard sell and understanding was simply not creeping into any of the three Simmons men's eyes. "It's good to know Latin, I mean _really_ know Latin if you're going to be an archoelogist…you know, and uncover artifacts with ….ah..Latin inscriptions on them."

When Brent spoke, his voice was a welcome intermission to Sam's stammering. "Wasn't Paul Walker an archeologist in TimeLine? You know, that movie about that time machine and that one guy, he got his ear cut off when…"

"Yeah," Sam interrupted with greedy relief, snapping his fingers and pointing to Brent like he was a winner in a contest. "Yeah, right, I forgot about that movie." And then he let silence fall, let the Simmons come to whatever conclusion they wanted to and turned again to his brother.

Dean's expression, peeking beyond his blood matted hair and blood stained face, was one of annoyance. "They don't know Indiana Jones?! Where are we? The Walton farm?!"

Sam couldn't fight the smirk that twisted up his lips. His brother's wit and Latin was something that probably never should have been mixed. Hearing Dean say things like "Do they not comprehend Indiana Jones? What place is this? The Walton's homestead?"… It was surreal, like visiting an alien world where Latin was the common language and Dean Winchester was the head geek.

Sam's smirk eased something in Dean, made this new wrench in his life more bearable. "You're loving this, aren't you?" he taunted, a lopsided smile on his lips, his finger pointing to Sam, not so much a gesture of accusation but of discovery. "Me looking like the freak of the week."

"Dean, you always look like the freak of the week," Sam countered, relieved that Dean's sense of humor was coming on line. Laughter was Dean's best weapon against hurt, against terror, against situations where he was decidedly out of control. '_Like right now_.' Sam retained the smile on his lips but his heart clenched at his brother's vulnerability. When was Dean going to get a break in life? When were either of them?! "I think it's time to take our circus on the road, don't you think?" Sam quietly suggested, suddenly consciously aware of the Simmons family at his back, watching Dean's vulnerability like it was some tv show put on for their amusement, like Dean's pain was something they had a _right_ to see.

"Aren't you going to make sure I'm not possessed, say Christo, at least?" Dean wisecracked, but Sam could see the true worry in his brother's eyes, the fear that he might be possessed, that he might harm Sam after they left their audience behind.

"Dean, you just said the name of God in Latin. I'm pretty sure possessed people don't have that privilege," Sam assured, pulling a smile on his face for his brother's benefit, shaking his head as if he was talking to someone mentally challenged.

"Well, excuse me for worrying that I might go all Meg on you! Forget I said anything," Dean grumbled back a hurt glint in his eyes.

"Dean…" Sam sighed gently, wishing he hadn't taken the flippant tone with a wounded Dean who wasn't quite up to their usual verbal sparring. He was about to close the distance he had let come between he and Dean when the all too familiar sound of a gun being cocked sounded behind him.

"Cantersville Police," announced a hard male voice. "Don't move a muscle."

Fear spiked through Sam, his eyes reflecting that emotion as he took in Dean's frozen stance, read the '_Now what?! Oh crap'_ expression on his brother's features as Dean looked behind him. When Dean's eyes fell back to him, Sam saw the angry disbelief and knew instinctively that he and Dean were thinking the same thoughts. '_Great, we managed to elude the Feds only to be brought in by some local yokels._'

But beyond the frustration, fear ensnared Dean's soul. Though Sam might be Bonnie to Dean's Clyde, he wasn't leveled with the charges Dean was, didn't face the death penalty. And though Dean Winchester wasn't afraid to die, to do so needlessly, foolishly, to earn nothing from that sacrifice was not something he wanted to contemplate.

Tensing, his heart pounding, Sam was poised to act, ready for any signal Dean might give him but his brother's green eyes were hard, defeated. When a second police officer walked by Sam and approached Dean, Sam knew why. The odds weren't in their favor, not with two guns trained on them.

"Put your hands on your head," the officer behind Sam ordered.

Brent's mother's came down the stairs to watch the results of her 911 call. Her tone carried an excited, hard edge when she spoke. "I knew something was off with them. Always talking about evil wolves and then they admitted that they killed Phil Marshal's hen. And then that one destroyed our shed," her farm work callused hand came up to point to Dean. "But when he started chanting…I knew…I knew…" she said, conviction in her tone, though it was clear that _what_ she knew was still a mystery to her.

The officer that approached Dean, who was burly in a biker sort of way, growled, "We heard about whack jobs like you two. Cults killing livestock to offer as sacrifices, speaking in mumbo jumbo chants."

Sam's eyes bulged in surprise, and his mouth fell open '_A Cult?!'_ They thought they were cult members, were arresting them only because of that misconception. Sam watched as Dean's lips fought against a smirk but there was a humorous, hopeful look in Dean's eyes. They weren't Fed prisoners yet…not until their fingerprints were fed into the database.

"Turn around," the burly cop snarled to Dean. Before Dean could move, the cop's meaty hand clamped onto his shoulder, yanked him a step forward and spun him around. Dean found himself viciously body-slammed into the china cabinet, sending the china clanking together and extorting a whoosh of air from his lungs.

Helplessly watching Dean being roughly manhandled, Sam clenched his teeth together. But Dean's grunt of pain wasn't something Sam was equipped to let pass. "Easy! He's hurt!" Sam protested heatedly, taking one step forward, ready to do whatever it took to get his brother free of the cop's abuse.

When the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head, Sam froze mid-motion.

"You want to die, you just keep moving," the first cop hissed.

Believing the cop's threat, Sam soothed, "Alright, alright." Raising his hands to his head for the first time, Sam did not shift his focus from Dean and his assigned cop.

Sam's cop stepped closer to Sam, gripped the younger Winchester's shoulder with cruel strength. When he spoke over Sam's shoulder, Sam knew the cop's height was equal to his own 6"4' and there was hard brutal strength in the other man's every rippling muscle. "Marty, do you hear that? The chanting guy's hurt. Maybe you should do your paramedic routine," the cop taunted, pressing the gun barrel harder into Sam's head.

"Sure thing, Randy," Marty agreed, sending his partner a smile that Sam knew had nothing to do with kindness. Leaning close to Dean's ear as the hunter's cheek was pressed against the china cabinet, Marty growled, "Does it hurt here?" punctuating his inquiry with a punch to Dean's bloody side. He was rewarded with a cry of pain from the eldest Winchester.

Rage tightened Sam's every muscle at Dean's cry, at the way his brother's hands gripped onto the cabinet to keep himself upright, to channel the agony he was in. '_Let your anger be a weapon instead of a weakness_,' Sam chanted his father's words in his head, over and over again because it was the only thing he could do, the only thing that lent any measure of consolation to him as he witnessed his brother's pain. Bidding his time, waiting for his opening, swearing that retribution would be had, just not now, not yet, it was all that kept his temper in check, well, that and the gun barrel at his head and the cop's nerve damaging grip on his shoulder.

Swallowing down the scream of pain that was still lodged in his throat, Dean flexed his stiff fingers, let the cabinet go, and miraculously kept his feet under him of his own accord. "You're not going to get the best medical volunteer award this year with that bedside manner. Maybe most lawsuits earned in the county," Dean taunted, forgetting that his insults were indecipherable to the cop at his side, to everyone but Sam.

'_Ah, Dean, keep quiet_,' Sam silently pleaded, dread raising as he saw Marty's face go white at the Latin words spilling from Dean, watched the man's eyes flicker to his partner's before settling back on Dean with fury born out of fear. Sam winced before the blow landed into Dean's kidney, before the groan escaped Dean, tensed as Dean morphed the groan into a taunting laugh. "Dean, stop talking," Sam ordered, his voice hard, desperate, worried, hoping that one of his emotions would get through to his thick headed brother.

Gripping the base of Dean's neck, Marty pressed Dean's cheek against the glass panel, putting a spider web crack through the panel. "You say one more chant and your momma won't have enough of you to scatter on a postage stamp," Marty hissed in Dean's ear, pushing Dean's face further into the cracking glass, standing so close that Dean could feel the man's rapidly beating heart against his back.

Wisecracking was second nature to Dean Winchester but protecting Sam was first and Sam was scared, he could hear it in his voice, could practically sense it pouring off his brother in waves. And it was a wake up call to realize Sam was scared _for him_. Swallowing down whatever retort he had, Dean resolved himself to take whatever the cops dished out in stoic silence because, apparently, his Latin was pushing all their buttons. Though he cockily swore that he could take whatever they dished out, Dean knew Sam wouldn't like that, wouldn't just stand idly by and watch him take a beating, deserved or no. Because, beyond the fear sensed in Sam, Dean felt the air spark with fury, with pent up energy, with his brother's outrage at the mistreatment Dean had already endured. And an angry Sam wasn't something to take lightly, to underestimate.

So when Marty pushed Dean's face further into the glass, when the spider-web crack caused shards of glass to embed in his cheek, when the cop's low voice taunted by his ear, "What, you got nothing more to say, wacko?" Dean remained silent, let the tension ease in his muscles, let Marty enjoy his temporary victory.

"Didn't think you did," Marty cockily said, lifting his meaty hand from Dean's neck, taking a step back from his beaten adversary. "Now put your hands on your head before I decide to bury you in old man's Simmons' tobacco crop," he ordered, a smug smile on his face as the suspected cult member linked his hands behind his head. He was reaching for his handcuffs when the elder Winchester went into convulsions and dropped to the ground, his body jerking as if it were connected to a live current.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, fear searing across his nerves, severing his worries about guns and arrests and even his own death as seizures wracked through his brother as he lay on the carpet of the Simmons living room. Pivoting with the speed of a Viper, Sam spun around, plowed the palm of his hand into his cop's nose even as his other hand latched onto the gun, easily pulling it from the now slack grip. Randy staggered under the blow, hands coming to his face, trying to stop the flow of blood from his nose, he never even had time to block Sam's uppercut to his jaw, was out before his body crashed onto the floor. Turning, Sam was about to drop to his knees beside his seizing brother but he stumbled instead as he watched a very in control Dean land a right cross to Marty's jaw as the cop bent down to check on his supposedly incapacitated prisoner. The blow sent Marty reeling toward Sam.

Gripping the lapels of Marty's shirt, Sam pulled the cop upright only to unleash a left hook into his gut followed by a right cross to the burly man's eye. Sam snagged onto the tilting figure, gripped the cop's jaw in his left hand, released it just as his right fist connected viciously with the man's cheekbone, watched in satisfaction as the man landed on the ground beside his coworker, out cold.

Turning around, Sam leaned over and slid his hand under Dean's elbow as his brother struggled to climb to his feet. Supporting some of Dean's weight, Sam pulled his brother upright, but didn't release his grip even after Dean was standing. Instead his fingers bit harder into Dean's flesh. "Dean, you almost gave me a freakin' heart attack!!" Sam snarled, fighting down the urge to shake his brother, to make him pay for searing incontrollable fear into him, fear that was still humming through him.

A cocky smile lit up Dean's pale face, "Convincing, wasn't it?"

"You're a jerk!" Sam accused but there was relief in his tone, an easing in the grip of his hand that was wrapped around his brother's arm. "Next time give me a warning, Dean!"

"That would spoil the whole thing, Sammy. It's all about surprise," Dean refuted but as he watched Sam's eyes darken, noticed his brother's jaw jump in frustrated anger, he sighed. "What did you want me to do? Wink at you?"

"Dean, you're speaking in a language no one here but me understands. You could have _told _me what you were about to do," Sam pointed out, his voice rising, feeling foolish that, he of all people, had fallen for one of his brother's juvenile cons.

"You told me to stop talking, Dude," Dean smugly returned, smiling, knowing that this time he had finally beaten Sam at his own game.

Sam opened his mouth, tilted his head and then shook his head, abandoning the idea of disputing something with Dean, especially a Dean spewing Latin. "Look, let's just get out of here before they wake up," he said, nodding his head toward the unconscious deputies, starting to pull Dean forward.

Side by side they began to head for the front door but they came up short at the sight of the Simmons family staring at them in slack jawed shock. "Ah…well, your hospitably sucked out loud.." Dean began but their reflexive flinches reminded him sharply that he wasn't speaking a language they understood or even liked.

Hoping to ease the fear he and his brother had instigated, Sam, releasing his hold on Dean, took a step toward Frank. When the members of the family seemed ready to retreat at his approach, Sam halted. "Alright, well, we'll be going now," he said, offering a small, quick smile before he followed Dean out of the living room.

Pushing open the Simmons' front door, Dean winced as the sunlight sent a piercing pain through his abused skull. Bending his head down in response to the pain, he raised his fingers to rub his temple. It was the only reason the shotgun blast didn't behead him but instead splintered the wood on the side of the house. Turning around, Dean tackled Sam to the Simmons' kitchen floor as a second blast ripped the front door from its hinges.

The breath slammed out of him, it took Sam a moment to move, to turn his head to see Dean sprawled out beside him, partially on top of him, their shoulders overlapping each other. Noting the grimace of pain contorting Dean's features as his brother started to push his hands under him to get up, Sam began to slide out from Dean's weight, knowing that every second counted, and that Dean wasn't in any condition to climb to his feet with any speed. The re-cocking of a shotgun had Sam's eyes swinging up to the figure towering over them in the doorway, both barrels of the shotgun sighted on him and his brother.

"I'm willing to bury you boys as easily as arrest you," the sheriff drawled, his finger resting on the shotgun's trigger with practiced ease. "You decide."

"Ok, Ok," Sam said in surrender, raising his left hand, his right still pinned under Dean. Relief and fear resonated through Sam when Dean moved his right hand out to the side, across Sam's chest in surrender as well. Sam turned his head to look at Dean. When Sam and Dean's eyes met, they conveyed the same sentiment. '_Ah crap._'

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading!

As for replying to reviews, due to my 'I'm writing and I can't shut up' problem lately, I'm hopelessly behind on responding to reviews for this story and my other one shots. Let me assure you that I value each and every compliment and encouragement you've all blessed me with even if I don't get a chance to personally drop you a thank you. I can be very insecure and nervous about posting my stories and every review eases the pit of nervous dread in my stomach that always says '_Boy, Cheryl, you really shouldn't have posted that…you should have kept it nice and safe on your laptop and been satisfied with that._' So thank you all for your support, for making me glad I risked a part of myself and went ahead and posted my stories regardless of what my gut was saying.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	3. Confined to Quarters

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: This is vaguely placed before WIAWSNB, so slight spoilers may pop up for some second season episodes. Sorry for the delay in posting and as always, your wonderful words of encouragement keep me happily thinking up more ways to emotionally and physically torment those yummy Winchester boys.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 3: Confined to Quarters

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Abandoning his code of silence and the notion of slipping free of his handcuffs, Dean, his eyes meeting his brother's, grumbled in Latin, "Well, that could have turned out better." Leaning back dejectedly against the ripped vinyl backseat of the police cruiser, he gritted his teeth as the wound in his side threatened to split further apart like some cheap pair of jeans.

"You think?!" Sam shot back with a sarcastically bitter laugh, snaking his brother's usual line, all the while fighting back a wince of empathy for Dean's obvious pain. Sam's snarky comment earned him a heated, though fleeting glare from his older sibling. With concern, Sam tracked the changes in Dean's features as they morphed from glare to exhaustion, to hurting to that hard edged mask, that denied the presence of any and all vulnerabilities, ever. However, Dean's façade, no matter how well crafted, could not undo the tangible evidence that brazenly contradicted the boast, namely the blood coloring his pale face like Indian war paint, the tattered state of his clothing with its art splatter of blood and, topping the tally, the alarming fact that none of the words that came tumbling from Dean's lips were English.

His eyes softened as they remained on Dean, Sam sighed, its own announcement of his hastily constructed truce. '_Yeah, and the last thing Dean needs is me snapping at him,_' he recognized, dismantling the tension between him and Dean. When Dean's shoulders dropped from their defensive position and relief lightened the green eyes, guilt shafted through Sam, knowing that it was his frustration, his worry, twisted as it was in short tempered words, that had garnered that reaction from Dean.

Looking away, Sam struggled to put his emotions into a box like Dean and his father had perfected. Deciding, as always, to tread the proactive path, Sam let his eyes flicker to the sheriff behind the wheel of the patrol car. Satisfied that the sheriff was more interested in driving and listening to his country western music than eavesdropping, Sam, nevertheless, lowered his voice and leaned toward Dean until his lips hovered above his brother's ear. "Dean, when they get us back to the Sheriff's office and run our prints…"

"Don't worry about that," Dean cut in, a dangerous edge in his words as he looked out of the side window.

"Don't worry! Don't worry! Dean you're.."Sam railed back, barely stopping himself from saying anything further, particularly at the volume his voice had climbed to. Swallowing, Sam tried to draw upon all the calm strength that he had wrestled under control only moments prior. But when Dean's eyes again clashed with his own, worry embedded in their green depths, Sam's control flew to the four winds. _Ah, now what?!_

Jerking his chin slightly toward the back window, Dean said, "Town's the other direction. The Sheriff's _office_ is the other direction." Dean knew that the words were enough, that he didn't need to draw Sam a picture. If the Winchester clan knew anything at all, they knew that things could always get worse.

Sam's bewildered eyes darted from the view out the back window of the car to Dean. "Then where are we going?"

Needing more information to make a reply, Dean twisted half way around to look more fully out of the back window. Instantly, he bitterly regretted the motion. The pain in his head felt like someone had signed him up for brain surgery and had forgotten to knock him out first. His ribs and side, not to be ignored, ignited in burning pain. Clamping his eyes shut, Dean let his cheek fall against the seat. Sharply drawing in a hiss of breath, he railed anew that his arm wasn't free to brace the ribs that ached fiercely and wounded side that gave him the impression that more than blood was escaping from his scored flesh.

Sam, handcuffed as he was, hated that he could not steady Dean, could only offer his presence and his words as comfort, as support. Tilting his head down close to Dean's, he soothed, "Easy, easy." When Dean offered no biting comeback, Sam fiercely wished that he had been able to determine the extent of his brother's injuries _before_ everything went sideways.

Knowing that his silence would be freaking Sam out, Dean, sighting his eyes on Sam's pinched face, forced out glib words. "The one good thing about all this is my insanity plea is looking promising," he said, raising his eyebrows to complete the joke.

Sam shook his head, a smirk somehow emerging on his face. "Yeah, well I obviously need my head examined too for going along with your lame schemes."

"My plans are fun and they work," Dean defended but at Sam's 'oh yeah?!' expression, he allowed, "Alright, they work most of the time."

Before Sam could protest even that concession, the police car bottomed out as it left the road and bounced over what someone might very generously label a dirt lane. Both Winchesters' eyes were draw to the view out the windshield, watching as the police cruiser negotiated between the trees of the forest that had been running alongside the paved road. As the lane swung sharply right, the forest obliterated the notion that civilization was only a few yards away.

Shifting to face forward again, regardless of his body's protests, Dean felt his gut clench in dread the longer the sheriff drove, the more dense the forest became. Shooting a look to Sam, Dean saw the same apprehension in Sam's eyes but neither brother spoke.

When the first structure came into sight, Sam hated the way his stomach flipped. The barbed wire fence circling the rundown compound didn't add to the ambiance of the ramshackle barrack buildings. And the men toting shotguns standing by the gate the sheriff was maneuvering the car up to, did not have the look of guards so much as bodyguards for some low-rent drug traffickers. He nearly jumped when his brother's rough voice broke the silence in the car.

"I don't think Agent Henricksen's here," Dean said, leaning closer to his window, taking stock of everything he could. Looking to Sam, seeing his brother swallow nervously, Dean offered up a quick, fleeting, face smile, " …or ever coming here."

"That the good news or the bad news?" Sam asked, bending closer to Dean to look out his brother's window.

"Let me get back to you on that," Dean muttered as the car was admitted into the compound that Dean hazarded was in use before he was born. The community boasted six structures, three were barracks, one was a relatively new building, another a supply shed and the fourth was more of an open pavilion with a tin roof and walls that only went up four feet that Dean pegged as the showers. '_Real cozy, like a tribute to the war camps of WWII. This day's turning out freakin' fantastic.'_

Dean tensed as a man in his forties, with a military cut to his hair, stalked up to the car. Without a break in his motion, the man opened Dean's door, latched onto Dean's arm and yanked him from the cruiser. Between the rough handling and the side effects from the head wound, Dean found himself stumbling into the man, vaguely wondering if that obstacle was the only think keeping him from hitting the packed dirt at his feet. A hand clamped onto Dean's jaw and jerked Dean's head up to meet the man's penetrating gaze.

"Welcome to your new home, boys," the man's lips tipped up in sadistic mirth, his eyes flickering to Sam as the other Winchester was shoved forward by a younger man who, though thin, had the hard look of a man not afraid to finish a fight in a permanent fashion. The older man released Dean's jaw with a shove, sending Dean crashing back hard into Sam's chest.

As Dean began rebounding from the older man's grasp, Sam had side stepped into his brother's path, hoping to stop Dean's momentum before he landed on the ground. But now as Dean slammed into him, groaned and began to slump, Sam wondered if he had managed to help or hurt his brother. Instinctively, he tried to reach forward to grab Dean only to be reminded sharply that his hands were cuffed behind his back. His first options thwarted, Sam stepped forward, bracing Dean with his own body.

The older man stepped right into Dean's personal space, bored his look into Dean, and managed to spare a glare for Sam before he spoke again. "You want to stay alive, you do what you're told, when you're told to do it. You try and make a run for it and we'll put a bullet right here.." he punctuated his words by jabbing his finger dead center into Dean's forehead, "and leave your carcass right where it dropped. Forget about calling your mommy, about hiring a lawyer, or worrying about pulling together enough money for bail 'cause your first and last appeal gutted out the second you passed through these gates."

Understanding the depths of the trouble they were in, Dean and Sam kept their faces impassive as they replied to the man's welcome speech with silence. A flash of surprised respect flared in the man's eyes before he turned around, said over his shoulder, "Leon, stow 'em in their quarters 'till the others get back," and walked away.

Leon, the younger man, kicked at the back of Sam's shoes, "Come on Jolly Green and Zombie from the living dead, start walking toward that first barracks." Wrapping his hand around Dean's arm, Leon dragged Dean forward on weak legs and gave Sam a jab in the lower back with his elbow, prodding him forward. Gathering as much intelligence from their surroundings as they could, both Winchesters walked toward the nearest barracks. "Hold up," Leon ordered as they came to the open door of the barracks and he unlocked first Sam's then Dean's handcuffs and growled, "In." Obeying, Sam and Dean watched as Leon shut the door, were not surprised to hear a bolt slide into place.

Simultaneously turning to inspect their accommodations, Sam and Dean stood shoulder to shoulder amid a room whose walls were lined with beds, unmade beds littered with dirty brown sheets and flat pillows, some of which were oozing their innards. There were no lockers or the presence of any personal items besides an errant sock and shirt.

Spotting another door at the end of the hallway, Sam stalked toward it, opened it up and nearly gagged, hastily shutting it, "Calling that a bathroom would be an insult to all bathrooms known to man. It's definitely an outhouse that's inside, no sinks, no water, nothing," Sam clarified, still choking on the acrid smell as he walked back to Dean, who was looking out of the building's solitary window which was cut out of the door and slivered with meshed wire.

"See anything promising out there," Sam asked, coming to stand at Dean's shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, looks like we came at a good time. We'll have the spa to ourselves," Dean wisecracked, watching as the sheriff drove out of the compound and the gate was closed again, sealing them in with more rednecks with guns than Dean liked to tussle with.

Sam frowned as he struggled to decipher his brother's Latin. "Wait, what about an aqueduct?"

Shaking his head, Dean bowed his head against the window in tired frustration before turning around to face Sam. "Nothing. Forget it." Sidestepping Sam and his confused tilt of his head, Dean walked to the center of the barracks. "So this is home sweet home. I have to say it's not all I've ever dreamed it could be but it's cleaner than some of the motel rooms I've stayed in." As if to prove that point he sank down onto the nearest bed, wincing, glad to have his arms free to brace his ribs again. When his fingers inadvertently connected with the wound on his left side, he hissed in a breath and looked down, intending to inspect the wound for the first time. He was startled when his hands were pushed away from the wound a moment before his brother crouched down in front of him.. Expelling a surprised rush of air, Dean growled, "Sam! Make some more noise when you move around!"

"You're the one who insisted on drilling me over and over again until I could sneak up on Dad," Sam sallied back, shooting a mockingly exasperated look up to Dean before he dropped his focus again to the blood stained fabric of his brother's shirt.

"You surprised Dad once," Dean contested. "Once! That does not make you the expert."

"I'm good enough to sneak up on you," Sam countered, scowling as he realized that the dried blood had bonded some of Dean's t-shirt to the wound.

"Forgive me for being a little distracted here…" Dean replied, head down, watching with a grimace as Sam began to pull the fabric away from the wound.

"I was talking about on the plane …" Sam contradicted, sparing a smug smile up to his big brother who looked up, meeting his eyes.

"Oooohhh, that's low Sammy," Dean drawled, shaking his head, never suspecting what was coming.

With Dean effectively distracted, Sam, with one motion, ripped the t-shirt fabric free of his brother's flesh. Dean's cry of startled pain shafted through Sam's heart as effectively as a spike. When Dean wrapped his arms around his torso and started to tilt to the left, Sam's hands shot out to halt his descent.

Sweeping his right arm up, Dean dislodged Sam's supportive hold, accepting that, by refusing Sam's help, he was consciously deciding to utilize the mattress's questionable haven. A groan accompanied his actions as he let himself drift to the right until he collapsed onto the mattress, his face pressing into the foul smelling pillow.

Watching Dean sink down onto his side on the thin, lumpy mattress, Sam felt his throat constrict. It reminded him of the events back at Bobby's, after he had been freed of Meg's manipulation, the way Dean had crumpled to his side, the sound of his brother's vocal chords offering up a groan of pain, green eyes locked away under tightly squeezed eyelids. Apology and sorrow laced Sam's words. "I'm sorry, Dean. It had.."

"To be done, I know," Dean finished, the words a little breathless with pain, his eyes still closed. Knowing that those words alone would not ease his brother's misplaced guilt at having hurt him to help him, Dean offered up a distraction of his own. Moving his arms away from the wound on his side, Dean subtly but unmistakably welcomed Sam's ministrations, trust shining in his now open eyes as they watched some of the tension bleed away from his brother's all too discernible facial expressions.

Shooting Dean a surprised but questioning look, Sam, receiving a slight nod from Dean, knelt beside his brother and gently moved the bloody t-shirt up his brother's chest. Sam's tightly clenched jaw jumped at the sight of the ravaged flesh detectable under the clotted blood. Settling his left hand on Dean's side inches above the wound to give support and to restrain his brother's motions in the same gesture, Sam, with skillfully gentle fingers, began to inspect the wound with his right hand. Under his left hand, Sam felt his brother's body tense but Dean did not allow himself to recoil from him, from his painful ministrations. Leaning closer to inspect the wound, Sam did not spare a look to Dean's face, didn't want to see the pain evident in Dean's eyes, if not his face.

Sam suddenly stilled, bent down lower and moved his fingers with more desperate purpose in their examination, eliciting a sharp inhale of breath from Dean as the cut flesh was jostled. Without pulling back from his close position to the wound, Sam turned his eyes upon his brother's face, found Dean had bowed his head to meet his glare, knowing somehow what Sam had discovered and was prepared to face the repercussions.

"This isn't a knife wound, Dean," Sam said, a deadly quiet accusation.

"Never said it was," Dean calmly stated, noting the anger gathering in Sam's eyes. He watched silently as Sam pulled away, sat back on his hunches, his anger melting away to frustration and worry.

When Sam had entered the Simmon's house, had found Dean bleeding from a horizontal wound on his side and Jack Simmons brandishing a blood stained knife, he had made an assumption, seemingly a wrong one. It didn't even take someone with his experience in treating hunting wounds to know a knife hadn't ruined the flesh of his brother's side, something with claws had. Looking fully at Dean, Sam tried to keep his voice calm, reasonable, nonjudgmental, "So are you speaking in Latin because of the knock on your head or because of this wound, of some kind of effect the wolf's having on you?"

"You know, I meant to ask the wolf that same question…" Dean joked but Sam's angry words cut him off.

"Dean, this is serious! If the wolf's wound is effecting you….we don't have any holy water…we don't even have any plain old tap water to clean your wounds, to prevent an infection from setting in," the words poured from Sam, his exasperation filling the room, his fear cutting into Dean's best defenses.

Dean, in his best soothing big brother drawl, began with the one word he could say in English "Sam …"

"Don't tell me you're fine or that this is OK or not to worry!" Sam preempted heatedly, breathing heavily, nailing his brother with his eyes, pinning him with his raging emotions.

For a moment Dean said nothing, Sam had rigidly restricted what he _could _say. Sighing not in defeat but acceptance, Dean pulled on a bitter smirk, "Alright. Then what do you want me to say, Sam? You want me to order you to kill me incase I start foaming at the mouth, or should I tell you how great it is to be stuck speaking a language that apparently no one likes to hear. Or maybe I should start on how awesome our new home is and that I don't think they plan on letting us out of here anytime soon..if ever. Is that what you want to hear, Sam?"

Sam visibly cringed, hating that honesty was always a deadly weapon in his brother's hands, wielded to wound and to isolate. Coming to his feet, Sam began to pace, hands rifling through his dark hair, sliding down his face, pulling on his chin as he considered and theorized and discarded multiple ideas. Stopping at Dean's head, he released a deep breath as his eyes met Dean's upturned face. "Well, first we have to get you patched up, then we'll track down some rosary beads and put holy water on your side."

"Sounds good," Dean drawled, with censure instead of agreement, as he rolled over onto his back and looked up at Sam towering over him. "Except I don't think our health care coverage is good in here and you know, when we got in here, I didn't spot a priest. Well, not out in the courtyard with the armed sentries."

Hurt and a little disheartened that Dean wasn't trying to ease his little brother's load like he usually did, Sam shot back heatedly, his voice rising, "Yeah, so, we improvise! You're the one that had me using a Sponge Bob placemat for that summoning ritual in the church, Dean."

Seeing the determination in Sam's eyes and nearly drowning in the worry pouring off of his brother, worry for _him_, Dean rotated his stare to the ceiling overhead, closed his eyes, swallowed and then slipped his game face on. Realigning his look on a fidgeting Sam, Dean revealed, a smugness marginally twitching up his lips, "I used a Star of David necklace instead of rosary beads one time."

The crushing pressure in Sam's heart eased as Dean joined his defensive campaign, as things fell into place like they should, with them standing figuratively shoulder to shoulder against whatever the world threw at them. "Hope that worked better than that time you tried to use a row of potato chips instead of a line of salt to guard the door," Sam smirked, surprised that he would remember, with such fondness, an incident that ended up with him and Dean both nearly dead, not to mention their father royally pissed when he returned to his teenage sons.

"I worked with what I had! It's not my fault they skimped on the salt on that batch of chips!" Dean defensively returned, making Sam smirk and shake his head, an affectionate look sparking in his eyes as they met his older brother's.

"So the Star of David, I take it that it worked?" Sam asked, sinking down on the bed beside his brother.

Dean smiled, "You dare to ask? My plans work, little brother."

"Sometimes," Sam qualified, earning him a squint eyed glare from his brother which made a smile turn up his lips. "OK, so this isn't like any county lock up I've been to."

"Right, like you're the expert," Dean mumbled back, garnering the 'do you have to contradict everything I say' look from his little brother. "Fine, it's not your standard prison," Dean allowed, beginning to struggle to sit up, grimacing as his pain spiked in his head and his side complained, loudly.

Recognizing a battle he was destined to lose, Sam instantly came to Dean's side and, sliding his left arm behind Dean's back and gripping his brother's elbow with his right hand, he helped Dean maneuver into a seated position against the wall. Instead of returning to the other bed, Sam claimed a seat on Dean's bed by his brother's knees. He wasn't encouraged by the paleness of Dean's face, or by the blood that still darkened his brother's hair and marred his right cheek. But Dean wasn't squinting against the sunlight that lit the room and his pupils weren't dilated. "So, what's your theory?" he asked, certain that Dean had possible answers already rattling around in his brain.

Tilting his head in displeasure and frustration, Dean conjectured, "Work camp by the looks of things." But to Sam's surprise an almost excited light flickered in Dean's eyes and he sat up straighter, latching onto some reserve of energy. "Maybe they needed cheap labor that they could count on to not talk about what went on here."

"For what purpose, Dean?"

Enthusiasm seemed to spark in Dean, "Maybe they're mining for gold…or drilling for oil …or organizing some military takeover…"

"Dude, how hard did you hit your head?" Sam scoffed but with laughter in his tone as he reached out as if he thought he had a chance in a million at actually laying his hand on Dean's bloody cheek. Expectedly, Dean slapped Sam's hand away mid way toward his cheek. Sam warned, "That's it, you're officially forbidden from watching anymore reruns of the X-Files or any conspiracy movies, at all."

"I'm serious Sam! They were tracks on the ground left by industrial vehicles, shovels and wheelbarrows leaning against a supply shed and, maybe if you missed it, but the other guests in this hovel aren't here, are somewhere else, doing some_thing_ else. And I don't think it's picking up trash along the road, do you?"

Sam didn't either but he wasn't happy with the picture Dean was painting. "Dean, this part of the country isn't known for its gold or its oil," he patiently pointed out, trying to shoot down his brother's theories with tact. "And as far as this being a secret military training ground for assassins……"

"I didn't say they were training .."

"Whatever," Sam allowed, raising his hand to halt Dean's protest. "No matter what's happening here, it's not good."

"Now who is pointing out the obvious," Dean grumbled but sighed at his brother's glare. "Yeah, agreed. So we bail the first chance we get, I got that."

Quietly, Sam reasoned, "We won't get far with you hurt like you are." Not surprised when Dean's eyes darkened in objection, Sam overrode whatever denial Dean was opening his mouth to make, "We'll stay long enough to get your wound doused in holy water and you cleaned up because, Leon was right, you look like a zombie from the Living Dead movies."

"Thanks, you know how to cheer a guy up," Dean retorted but there was acceptance in his eyes, relief almost, because Dean might put his pride before his own life but never Sam's. And truthfully, Dean knew Sam was right. He wouldn't make it far if they made a break for it now.

'_No, __**we**__ wouldn't make it far_' Dean corrected, knowing without an ounce of doubt that Sam wouldn't leave him behind if he faltered. Seeing the set of Sam's jaw, Dean knew his brother was stubborn enough to heft his stupid carcass over his shoulder and carry his older brother the whole way back to civilization. It only cemented what Dean had thought he had read in his brother's look when Sam had bent down beside him as he had sat tied in that chair, Gordon's bait for Sam. Somewhere between Sam leaving him in that motel room without warning to seek answers about his fate and untying him in that abandoned house, an iron clad resolve had forged in Sam's soul. A resolve that, no matter what lay ahead, he would make the journey at Dean's side, come hell or high water, literally. It was the reason Dean knew Sam hadn't left him of his own volition when Meg high-jacked his brother's body. It was going to be Sam-and-Dean and Dean-and-Sam from here on out, until the fat lady sang, until revenge was sated and justice was claimed for their mother, for their dad, for Jess and all the others who had been causalities in the Winchester war.

"So, when do you think dinner is served in this place?" Dean wondered, getting a snort from his brother, feeling a genuine smile turn up his lips in return. Sure, the accommodations weren't Club Med, but there were no signs that a pissed off nurse haunted the barracks, that a deranged wolf would come clawing at the doors and Sam was with him. How bad could it be spending a few days mining for gold or even picking up garbage along the state road?

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Sorry that there wasn't action in this chapter but I had to establish some of the background info, and besides, we had to give fair time to poor Dean's injuries, (though Sam made no headway in tending to said injuries), Sam's worry and their general 'we're so screwed' scenario they always find themselves in on the show and in the fics I love to read/write best. Man, it's tough being a Winchester! (But if Dean popped the question to me, I'll gladly adopt his last name without hesitation, danger and angst be danged.)

Again, I really love hearing from anyone who wants to let me know if I'm hitting the mark with the story. And I appreciate your forgiveness at my terrible lack of replies to your wonderful reviews. As always, I value your opinions and love that you share them with me.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	4. Unguarded Prejudice

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors Note: Spoilers for "Folsom Prison Blues."

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 4: Unguarded Prejudice

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When lightening lit up the night sky, it illuminated the three rats scurrying around in the four by three foot hole Dean's boot was toeing. '_Great, rats! Just a perfect ending to a perfect day,_' Dean grumbled silently before a kick was leveled at the back of his left knee, crumbling his already weakened stance. As Dean toppled into the hole, his shoulder impacted with the hard packed southern wall before his back slammed into the ground at the bottom of the five foot drop. Without his permission, the breath from his lungs was substituted for a guttural groan of surprised pain. Above him, Dean heard Sam snarl a curse. Then his brother's 6'4" frame blotted out the lightening show that Dean saw from his prone position. Dean attempted to roll clear of Sam's projected path of descent but found that, within half a turn, he was up against the wall on the other side. Out of options, Dean covered his head with his arms an instant before Sam collided with his exposed right side, igniting Dean's body with pressure points of pain. Sam's elbow dug into Dean's ribs, his knees bruised Dean's thigh on impact and his chin nailed Dean in his back right between his shoulder blades. A true cry of pain whooshed out of Dean's weakened lungs.

Dean's pained cry pierced Sam's heart. Reacting as if his touch was acid upon his brother's flesh, Sam quickly rolled off of Dean's already much abused body. Landing on his back, Sam felt the hewed earth brushing his right shoulder and his brother's taut back pressed against his left shoulder in the confined space. Sitting up, Sam leaned worriedly over Dean's shoulder, trying to make out his brother's face in the darkness. "Dean?!" he entreated, his tone choked with worry and brimming with regret that he had inflicted further pain on his brother. Sam laid a gentle, tentative hand on Dean's shoulder as his brother curled in on himself. Slipping between Dean's ragged breaths came a "Hmmm"' from his raw throat, half a moan and half an answer.

Sam's head snapped up when the steel barred door overhead dropped into the metal frame of the hole. A moment later, Chase, the guard with grey peppering his hair, stood on the grate, looming over them like an ominous shadow in the stormy night.

"Since your beds in the barracks apparently weren't up to your standards, I'm hoping you like your new accommodations here at the Ritz." Then the guard made a show of looking up to the sky as the thunder shook the ground and another bout of lightening made the night seem like day. Then Chase looked down again to his prisoners. "Looks like a beautiful night to be out under the stars…long as you don't mind getting a little wet. Night boys." And then the guard stepped out of the limited line of sight that the hole afforded and Sam could hear the three guards talking and laughing as they walked away, leaving the Winchesters in the locked hole for the duration of the night, maybe intending to leave them there for the duration of their stay at this prison.

Head bowed down to his chest, arms wrapped around his ribs, Dean tried to work through the pain flaring like forest fires from his head down to his toes. He wondered vaguely if Sam's hand on his shoulder was the only thing anchoring him to consciousness, that the tension in his brother's grip on his shoulder and the tremble in his brother's tone when he had said his name was the sole reason he wasn't just calling it a day. Because, if Dean was honest with himself, he was pretty certain that slipping into the void would be preferable to sucking up the pain like a good little Winchester soldier should. Sometimes it sucked out loud having to always be the invincible big brother.

Shifting in the limited space, Sam came to his knees behind Dean, his right hand never leaving his brother's shoulder. "Dean, you with me?" he gently beckoned as he sent his left hand sliding down Dean's shoulder to his neck, to the pulse that beat steadily there under his fingers.

"Always," Dean wheezed out in Latin like a knee jerk reaction that was all instinct, no thought required.

Though the word was barely audible, just managing to travel the few inches to Sam's ear, it humbled Sam even as it brought a sting to his eyes and ignited a wonderful ache in his heart. Barely clinging to consciousness, bloodied, battered, having nearly died less than an hour earlier only to be tossed in a hole, none of it had the power to daunt Dean's loyalty to his brother. Sam's throat closed around the reply he had almost made of "ditto" struck with the lie it would be, had been. He hadn't always been with Dean, not during his four year stint at Stanford and even more unforgivably, not in Burkitsville and not after Dean had told him what John Winchester had said about his youngest son's possible fate.

With a voice already raw, Sam asked, his tone managing to turn husky with grief, regret and concern, his left hand in the darkness feeling its way up Dean's neck toward the head wound, "Did your head wound reopen?"

"Ow! Get your finger out of my ear," Dean grumbled and even though his voice was breathless it was no less threatening.

"Sorry." Moving his fingers forward, Sam felt the layer of grit on Dean's face, detected his brother's five o'clock shadow underneath it. In surprised pain, he jerked his hand away. "Agh, Dean what…"  
"Glass shards from the Simmons' cabinet," Dean supplied matter-of-factly, his voice still low with pain, still dry, raw but now with more strength, more air. "Are you done playing pin the tail on the donkey or you planning on taking out my eye before you're done?"

A smile crept onto Sam's face at his brother smart aleck grouse, easing his worry. If Dean was verbally abusive, even in another language, then things weren't so bad. "So is that an affirmative that your head's bleeding again?"

"No, Sam, head's not gushing blood, all my limbs are attached, and I'm assuming Latin's still my language of choice?" Dean slipped in the inquiry like it was a throw away question, like the answer didn't matter.

Though his throat suddenly burned, Sam joked, "Sorry, you're still not broadcasting on all channels," because he knew Dean would appreciate the humor, would shut him out if he showed his true level of concern, went all touchy-feelly.

"When did you get a sense of humor?" Dean countered, but there was a smirk in his tone. Sam felt the tension ease in his brother's bowed body, felt Dean's head come forward, heard a breath exhale from his brother's compressed lungs.

"Well since you weren't using yours…." Sam sallied back, Dean's elbow in his gut getting a grunt out of him that instantly morphed into laughter. Changing positions, Sam leaned against the wall at the top of his brother's head, bending his legs slightly at the knee to fit in the length of the hole. There was room on Sam's right side but he couldn't bring himself to put any more distance between himself and Dean. He already regretted that his new position had required him to relinquish his grip on his brother's shoulder, to abandon the contact with Dean that he hadn't realized he would miss so fiercely. Pretending to be trying to find a more comfortable position, Sam maneuvered a little closer to Dean. Casually he braced Dean's back with his legs, felt when Dean was finally able to draw in a deep breath of air. And when Dean's head unfurled fully from its slightly bowed posture, Sam didn't mind that his brother's head came to rest against his hip.

Looking down at the profile of his brother's face in silence, Sam wasn't sure if he wanted to curse the lightening or praise it when he could make out his brother's features clearly. Lying so still, his eyes closed, Dean didn't look capable of even being conscious let alone able to get in the trouble he had throughout the day. With weariness Sam sighed, his eyes fixed on Dean's face now hidden again in the night, "You know, I'm really starting to hate this place."

"How can you say that? After the way we've been made to feel welcome? Shame on you, Sammy," Dean mockingly reprimanded, too spent to open his eyes on a wasted gesture of bravado that Sam wouldn't even be able to see.

Sam chuckled, leaned his head back against the wall before he rolled it slightly side to side. "Man, who knew Latin could totally freak out so many people."

"Hey, the guys bunking with us think I'm the sane one compared to you," Dean counterattacked, his small outbreak of coughing that followed filling in the silence that fell. He was unprepared for Sam's laughter.

"The look on their faces…" Sam sputtered.

Dean's deep chuckle soon joined in. "Probably matched the look on mine. Dude, you have _definitely_ been hanging out with me too long."

"Nope, not long enough, not by a long shot," Sam contradicted a catch in his throat. When Dean tensed at his words, Sam couldn't breathe, was floundering on what to say to make it better, to make it something Dean wanted to hear. But Sam could not take back the words, would not. It was the truth and Dean, at the very least, deserved to hear it. Before he could speak, Sam felt Dean's coiled muscles relax, was trusted with more of Dean's weight as Dean settled his back more fully against his brother's longer legs.

Unconsciously, some of Dean's emotional walls lowered at Sam's words, at his brother's tender sentiment. Dean found, when he spoke, that his voice had lost its bravado somewhere, his exhaustion dropping his baritone lower. "If tomorrow's not any better than today, dude, I want my money back on this vacation package."

Sam's throat tightened with worry at the utter weariness that had slipped into Dean's tone, if not his brother's words. Suddenly Sam had the inexplicable urge to put his hand reassuringly on Dean's head, to seal their connection, to reassure Dean that whatever tomorrow held they would face it together.

Out of the blue, Dean growled without bite, "Sam, that was not an opening for a chick flick moment," as if he knew Sam's intentions, knew that his brother's emotions were notching up, ready to drench Dean in some 'emo' moment.

"I wasn't," Sam denied, his voice pitched a little too high, sounding a little too much like the little boy that Dean knew so well, who was quick to deny blame.

"Ah huh," Dean murmured in his own denial, drawing his arms tighter against his ribs, wincing in the dark.

Smiling down at Dean, Sam shook his head, amazed again at Dean's ability to be the strong one, even when he was physically reaching his limit. Leaning his head back against the wall, Sam looked overhead to the nighttime sky that was still entertaining flashes of lightening, still baffled that things had gone so horribly wrong in just one day's time. '_Winchester luck,_' he admitted with a sigh, because even Dean's propensity for trouble and his sudden craving to speak Latin couldn't be the blame for all of the events of the day.

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THREE HOURS AGO….

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With Dean sacked out, not without protest, on the barracks' bed, Sam, left to his own devices, took stock of the resources at hand. It took him all of three minutes to come up with a big fat goose egg, deciding that even the A-Team would be hard pressed to weld together the spare furniture into something useful.

Frustrated, Sam sat on the bed beside Dean's, his back pressed against the wall, never contemplating sleeping because, with a single look, he had promised Dean he would take first watch. When Dean had allowed himself to drop off into sleep in hostile territory, Sam understood the deep level of trust Dean had in him. Somehow that made things worse, made Sam feel caged in, in more ways than the four walls of the barracks ever could make him feel. It was up to **him** to take the lead here, to slip into protective mode, to concoct the big escape plan, a plan that _had_ to work.

Contrary to his earlier teasing to Dean, Sam knew that his big brother's plans usually _did work_, that he counted on Dean to _have_ a plan, trusted, more explicitly than he would ever tell Dean, that the plan would work. There was no greater proof of that explicit trust than when he had gone along with Dean's whole insane "go into prison to take out a ghost" plan that they had utilized to pay back a debt to their father's friend, Deacon. Sure, there was brotherly love mixed in Sam's concession but if that had been his only motivation for agreeing, he would have opted instead to sucker punch Dean, haul his unconscious carcass into some forgotten nook of the desert and send Deacon a gently worded 'sorry about your luck' email.

Looking over to Dean's sleeping form on the other bed, Sam felt the weight of his responsibilities settle on his shoulder, seemingly on his chest. Dean looked terribly pale, had that rough look on his face like he had after the heart attack but, thank God, he wasn't projecting that 'I'm not really here anymore' expression that he had worn while in the coma. Dean was here with him, was just sleeping, was trusting him to stand guard while he conceded to his body's need for rest.

The rumbling engine of an industrial truck startled Sam. Swiftly rolling off the bed, Sam put his hand on his sleeping brother's shoulder, was surprised and worried that Dean didn't rouse at the touch. "Dean," he called, putting a little more pressure in his contact, relieved when Dean's eyes fluttered open, settled on him and instantly sharpened.

"What's happening?" Dean asked, his words only slightly tainted by the remnant disorientation of the nap Sam had insisted he take.

A frown flashed fleetingly across Sam's face before he schooled his features. Trampling down his disappointment and rising concern over the unwelcome news that his brother's nice little nap hadn't rid Dean of his proclivity to speak Latin, Sam replied, "I heard a truck entering the compound."

Studying Dean, Sam wished that he hadn't had to wake his brother almost as much as he wished he could somehow get his brother's injuries attended to, get the blood off of his face and out of his hair. Sam had come to terms with the fact that Dean always looked vulnerable in his sleep, but an awake, vulnerable looking Dean didn't do wonders for Sam's peace of mind or his ability to not panic, or the concentration that was required of him to plot the "great escape."

Well experienced with the effect injuries and pain had on his body's performance levels, Dean reluctantly abandoned the notion of attempting to sit up unaided even before he made his first concerted motion. Instead he thrust his hand up toward Sam with a growled, "Help me up." However, Sam offered Dean, not his hand, but a woefully, worried little brother scowl. "Now, Sam," Dean snapped because it was not the place or time for Sam's well meaning, hand wringing concern, not when Dean didn't know what came next for them but knew unerringly it wasn't going to be a keg party with girls and a buffet of his favorite foods.

Though protests still shone in Sam's eyes, Dean's hand was engulfed in the tight, strong grip of his brother's hand. Levered up to a seated position on the bed, Dean, to his credit, didn't let a moan escape him, nor did he allow his face to be a conduit for the pain the action had seared into him. Slipping his hand free of Sam's grip, Dean, as his 'highest ranking Winchester' position dictated, took charge of the situation and his brother. "Check it out, Sam," he ordered, the roughness of his voice catching him off guard, annoying him because it was a blatant telltale sign of weakness. Watching the effect that knowledge had on Sam, noting in the look that his little brother bestowed on him how Sam's worry had amplified, Dean felt his annoyance morph into a curse at his voice's betrayal. With his voice unreliable, Dean jerked his head toward the door and consequently the only window that the barracks boasted, reinforcing his order, conveying with his hard glare, that what he said wasn't a suggestion, was a command that Sam had better carry out if he valued his life.

Having never truly been able to directly disobey an order from Dean, (his father? yes, Dean? no), Sam relented. "Fine, just stay put," steel in his own tone, in his eyes as they unflinchingly seared into his brother's because his compliance didn't mean his submission, especially if it would give his brother free reign to be reckless. "I mean it, Dean."

Instead of agreeing, Dean gave a light, quick slap to Sam's right thigh which was the closest and easiest part of Sam's body that he could make contact with without calling on energy he just didn't have. "Go look, Sam. Now."

Knowing that gathering all the information that they could about their situation was their best defense, Sam gave up holding out for Dean's acquiescence to his order. With a huff, Sam stalked to the door. Taking in the view afforded by the meshed window, Sam could see a troop transport truck, watched as men jumped down off of the bed of the truck.

"Well, our fellow inmates are returning," he reported before shooting his look across the distance that separated him from his brother. "Your theory that the other participants in this work program are probably librarians and accountants that just got pulled over for speeding…" he let a beat of dramatic silence fall before he concluded, "well, it's crap, Dean." Jerking his head toward the world outside the window, Sam said, voice rising with angry worry, "They look more like a pro football team except they are wearing jerseys that are all orange with numbers on their breast pockets instead of their backs. Remember Tiny, your sparring partner in the Green River county jail?" Sam asked rhetorically, his look turning censorious as his eyes met his brother's. He yanked a thumb toward the window. "Well all these guys are about his size, if not bigger."

Crossing back toward his brother's side, Sam commanded, steel in his tone, "Which means don't start anything with them, Dean."

"Hey, it was _your idea_ for me to pick a fight with Tiny," Dean accused, tilting his head up to face his brother who somehow managed to simultaneously loom menacingly over him and hover worriedly around him.

Sam gave a weary, angry shake of his head, balking at his brother's statement, even if he was secretly glad that the subject had finally been breached. "No, no, Dean. I told you to pick a fight with _someone_. You're the idiot who picked it with a guy that was sizing you up for a casket." Sam could still remember the anger that had flared in him, the dread that had pinged off the bottom of his gut when Dean boldly dropped into the seat across from Tiny, selecting the hulking man as his partner in their distraction. Then, when Tiny's first punch sent his brother flying out of his seat, Sam almost abandoned his plan, almost ran forward and stood between Tiny's jackhammer fists and his brother. But he didn't come to Dean's rescue, couldn't, not if he wanted to get the job done and get out of lock up once and for all, to rescue his brother from a more deadly threat, namely a lethal injection.

Dean's denial jolted Sam back to the here and now.

"I could have beaten him. Would have if the guards hadn't interfered," Dean threw out the token boast, even as he remembered the crushing grip of Tiny's arms around his chest, cutting off his air, seemingly folding his bones in upon themselves like tin.

"Keep telling yourself that, Dean," Sam countered. Crouching down to be eye level with his seated brother, Sam shot his hand out to latch tightly onto Dean's upper arm, guaranteeing his brother's most serious, unwavering attention. "I mean it, Dean. Don't provoke these guys. They don't have much to lose in here. And don't talk, at all."

"Don't give me orders, Sam!" Dean said dangerously, Sam's hard edged, authoritative tone hitting a nerve within him.

"Say that in English and I'll back off," Sam challengingly tossed back, taking the kid gloves off because Dean needed to face the facts. He was hurt, was vulnerable, was screwed up, by either the gash in his side, courteous of a supernaturally tainted wolf, or by the sheer seriousness of his head wound. And one of those wounds had left him unable to speak in the language that was his, that he carved out everyday and made more his own with his slang and turn of phrase. Part of the adventure of each day for Sam was wondering what was going to come out of his brother's mouth, what smart aleck comment, what off the wall observation, what tone Dean would employ that would turn an ordinary word into something that ran through Sam's head, days, months, years later, would make the one word suddenly quotable.

Unexpectedly, Sam missed that adventure, sharply. Hated that the Latin restricted what Dean could say, what Dean could think, what Dean could even feel. That it had the power to be a cage as much as the barracks were, more so, because, where four walls could never fence in Dean's bigger than life personality, but the Latin could, _was_ and Sam hated it with a passion that surprised him. He hated it almost as much as he despised the hurt, defeated emotions that now veiled his brother's eyes, dulling them.

Swallowing an inexplicable lump in his throat, Sam let his hand slip from Dean's arm. Standing up, he reported the vital information that he had gathered from his reconnaissance at the window. "The inmates are covered in dirt and there were shovels and picks in the back of the truck." Hungrily he anticipated Dean reveling in his victory, of gloating that he had been right about the work detail involving large industrial trucks, shovels and hard labor. But Dean was looking down at his hands, shoulders bent, quiet. "There goes your assassin boot camp theory," Sam goaded, unconsciously holding his breath, able to breathe again only when Dean's head came up, a good humored glare in his brother's green eyes, the Latin equivalent for "Shut up!" flung at him.

The sound of a bolt sliding across metal sent Sam and Dean's attention flying to the door. Not one to willingly expose his vulnerabilities, especially to his enemies, Dean pressed his hands on the mattress and began to lever himself off the bed. With surprise, he realized that Sam's hand was already wrapped around his arm. When he came to his full height, Dean suddenly wasn't sure which direction was up, felt his legs threaten to dump him on his butt. Almost blindly, he reached out for Sam, his left hand bunching up in his brother's t-shirt even as he sagged against his brother's chest. It made Dean keenly aware that it had been his brother's strength, not his own, that had even allowed him to gain his feet. At his pathetic display of weakness, Dean felt embarrassed yet grateful when Sam's arm slipped around his waist, when his brother's hand settled on his chest, steadying him.

"I gotcha Dean," Sam assured gently, as Dean shook his head trying to will his blurry vision to sharpen, for the white hot spike of pain strafing through his head to abate, for his body to suck it up and do what he told it to, needed it to. Dean refused to be a liability for Sam, not here, not now.

Torn between settling Dean back down onto the bed and honoring Dean's obvious desire to be on his feet to greet their guests, Sam looked quickly from the door back to his brother's bloodless face. Making his decision, Sam pressed Dean back down to sit on the bed, alarmed even as he was thankful at Dean's lack of opposition. But when Dean started to topple backwards, Sam gave a soft alarmed cry of "Dean," fisting his hand in his brother's shirt to keep him upright.

With another shake of his head, Dean found his vision clearing, felt the pain in his head easing minutely, allowing him to concentrate on his surroundings, on the worried face of his brother. He managed to jut his chin toward the door, gesturing an order to Sam, an instant before they had company.

Reluctantly, Sam released his hold on Dean and spun on his heels to face the newcomers, shifting himself protectively in front of Dean, nearly blocking his brother from sight. Defiantly Sam watched the two men enter the barracks. Though they wore no uniforms, Sam knew that they were what this prison would loosely label as guards. The first man through the door had grey peppering his hair and the precise movements of a military man. The second man was young, seemingly too young for the job at hand, his eyes tended to flicker between the Winchesters and his fellow guardsman with uncertainty. And when he shifted on his feet nervously, the grocery bag in his arms threatened to topple over.

Tensing as the older guard stalked lazily toward him and Dean, Sam didn't mistake the guard's slow approach for hesitation. No, it was pure confidence that radiated from the guard's eyes, master to Sam and Dean's servant rank. "So Sheriff Carson musta really taken a shine to you boys, sending you here right out of the box," the guard surmised, a hard edge marring his southern drawl as he came to a halt inches from Sam, his eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back to Sam.

Never without a smart aleck comeback, no matter the occasion, Dean opened his mouth to deliver the goods, confident that his tone would be able to convey what his Latin words might not. Instead he muffled a yelp of pain when Sam shifted backwards and brought his size eleven shoe down, hard, on Dean's foot, cutting off whatever retort he was about to unleash.

Having narrowly headed off Dean's predictable verbal offensive, an offensive whose tone, Sam was sure, would not have required interpretation, Sam let silence be their collective rejoinder. The guard's green eyes bore into him, daring him, prodding him, striving to intimidate him but Sam had been interrogated, brow beaten and trained by one of the best, John Winchester, who had been Sam's commanding officer first and his father second. However, what did worry Sam was the tension that was radiating off of his brother. Sam didn't need to look behind him, to see Dean, to know his older brother was poised for action, was ready to seize any opening that arose to get the upper hand, to take a risk in order to turn the odds around in their favor.

"Guess you're right, sir," Sam submissively replied, his eyes still steady with the guard's but now they were missing the challenge that had blazed in them an instant earlier. An instant ago when he had realized Dean was waiting for _him_ to react, to give the green light, to decide if they made their move now or sought another opening. Though he usually stood at Dean's side, took his big brother's orders, Sam had been the lead on numerous hunts, had devised plans his brother followed, though not without some griping. But this time was different, this involved complete submission, complete trust, reflected Dean's complete devotion to him. It didn't matter that Dean could barely stand, that he was caked in blood, that he had somewhere along the line forgetten how to speak English. If Sam gave the go ahead, Dean would back him up 100, or die trying. Sam wasn't willing to put his brother at risk, not for his own ego and not for some foolish grab for freedom that would mean nothing if Dean got hurt further.

Sidestepping the youngest Winchester, the guard shot a warning glare at Sam as he detected Sam's clenched fists and readiness to protect the man seated on the bed. Then the guard settled his ice cold eyes upon Dean, got his first full look at the blood caked Winchester and let out a whistle, "Oh, yeah, you certainly pissed off someone." Neither brother took the effort to clarify, either in English or Latin, that it was not some**one** but some**thing **that Deanhad angered. Meeting Dean's steely eyed challenge head on, the guard called over his shoulder to the younger guard, "Maybe we should just go ahead and send this one to the infirmary. Won't get much work outta him the way he is. What do you think, Ricky?"

It was not the opening Sam was expecting but he was willing to take it. "He just needs some stitches and then he'll be up to working," Sam reassured, downplaying his brother's injuries because a fear was growing in him, tightening in his gut. This was a work camp, through and through, and if he or Dean were found to be useless in whatever illegal work was being done here by con labor, unlike the numbered inmates outside, they wouldn't be missed if they dropped off the grid.

Dean almost sighed, almost shook his head at his brother's naivety even after all their training because Dean would bet the Impala that the guard's offer of a visit to the infirmary didn't include TLC. And if Dean had any doubts, the uncomfortable look in the younger guard's, Ricky's, features, confirmed it. This was a taunt Ricky was familiar with and still hated being part of. He was the nice, young kid who ended up hanging out with the bullies, had tried and failed time and again to talk his friends out of committing their cruelest pranks. Dean was not surprised to hear the older guard sputter in laughter, to see the cruel mirth alight in his eyes which hadn't lifted from his own.

"Hear that, Ricky? Guy here wants us to take his friend to the infirmary. Well I haven't got a problem with that…," the guard said, stepping toward Dean, hand reaching out to seize Dean's arm.

Suddenly, Sam pushed his way between the guard and Dean, stood toe to toe with the guard, blocking him access to his brother, forbidding the man to even _touch_ Dean. Because now, Sam knew, he understood almost too late, that it had been some sick twisted joke, knew in his every fiber that he definitely didn't want Dean ending up in this guard's version of an infirmary.

There was no deception now in the cruel smile the guard offered up to Sam. "What? Now you've changed your mind? Suddenly your buddy's not so bad off, can do the work just fine right?"

Tightly, Sam answered, "Yeah, he's fine. He can do the work," ready to engage in battle if the lines were drawn, if the man made one move around him, toward Dean.

Instead the guard gave a twisted smirk and snorted. "Alright, you want to delay the inevitable. I'll just sit back and handle the bets like I always do."

Behind the guard, the Winchesters watched as their fellow inmates filed into the room, their orange prison jumpsuits caked in mud, their eyes taking in the scene in the room not so much with interest as in wariness, content to crowd in the front of the room, to keep their distance. The younger guard, Ricky, shifted away from the other prisoners until he stood at the door, his hand on the gun in his shoulder holster.

"So anybody want to lay down a bet on how long the bloody one's gonna last?" Chase offered to the inmates at his back, showing no fear that they would take advantage of him while his back was turned with only a twitching Ricky for backup. Silence greeted him and Dean watched as his smile turned feral, energized by the power he had over the hulking men at his back. " Me, I'm not giving him odds past tomorrow when Dylan returns cause we all know that Dylan tends to discard the runts of the litter."

Dean's hand shot out, latched tightly onto the coiled muscles of Sam's right arm, forestalling whatever retaliation Sam intended for the slight to his brother. Recognizing the true threat that the cunning guard presented, Dean lowly said, "Don't Sam. He's goading you," having noted that Chase had, somewhere along the line, unsnapped the clasp of his gun holster to allow a quick draw, was even now gripping the handle of his .45 Magnum.

The flash in the guard's eyes instantly told Dean that Chase wasn't a fan of the Latin language. "Say that again, kid. In English," Chase hissed, his grip tightening on the handle of his still holstered gun.

Backed into a corner, Dean did what came naturally, he offered up a smirk, a cocky tilt of his head and said plainly in Latin, "Love to. You giving out lessons."

Faster and with more strength than Sam would have given him credit for, Chase shoved Sam further to the side, out of arms' length, pulled his gun, cocked it and brutally pressed it's barrel down on Dean's thigh, right at the bend of his knee. A maniacal glimmer projected in Chase's eyes as he snarled, his calm military reserve sliding away under a menacing anger, "This is America. Whatever you have to say you say it in English." When Dean's eyes went frigid with a challenging 'go ahead do what you gotta do,' goad, Chase leaned closer, pushed the barrel down harder on Dean's leg, "You better start beggin' for your life in English **right now** or you'll be a gimp the rest of your life," his finger tensing around the trigger.

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TBC

Well, there it is, another chapter to this mess those Winchester got themselves into. I hope the jump in time didn't throw you off too badly. I just needed to shake things up a little, put some mystery into the mix.

As always, I value any reviews anyone wants to drop me and I'm hoping to start getting the time to reply to the wonderful, touching reviews you've all graced me with on this story.

But in case that's a little farther away than I planned, thank you all for supporting me and this story and sticking around to see what painful , death-defying, humorous things I'm going to inflict on poor Dean and Sam. They do look so gorgeous, all bloody and angst ridden and well, yeah, they look gorgeous any way they come.

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W 


	5. Flaring Tempers

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 5: Flaring Tempers

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When Dean's eyes went frigid with a challenging 'go ahead do what you gotta do,' goad, Chase leaned closer, pushed the barrel down harder on Dean's leg, "You better start beggin' for your life in English **right now** or you'll be a gimp the rest of your life," his finger tensing around the trigger.

"He doesn't speak English!" Sam shouted out, panic and desperation in each word, hands raised in supplication, not confident that he could intercept the man's actions if he decided to pull the trigger. "He just told me not to provoke you, ok. Told me to back down. Nothing else, I swear," his tone imploring as his heartbeat sounded in his chest louder than one of Dean's favorite bands, unable to even think about looking away from Chase's finger as it rested on the gun's trigger, unable to even break away even to look at Dean.

When Chase drew his eyes away from Dean to look to him, Sam didn't mask his desperation, the plea he was willing to offer up for Dean. When Chase uncocked the gun and withdrew it from Dean's thigh, Sam's knees felt weak.

Giving Dean a light slap on the cheek, as if scolding an errand school boy, Chase dismissed the elder Winchester and turned to Sam, pounding a finger into Sam's chest. "I hear him spouting off one word around me that's not English and I really will take him to the infirmary, that understood?"

"Yes, sir, I understand sir," Sam replied, obedience and relief in his tone, knowing a dodged bullet better than anyone. Then Chase strode from the barracks, Ricky hard on his heels leaving the bag of groceries on the table at the front of the room. Acknowledging the presence of his fellow roommates for the first time, Sam gave out a tentative smile of greeting to the hulking men that were starting to break out from their penned in space.

Sam's head swung around to settle on Dean as his brother spoke, his sarcastic drawl seeping out of even the Latin words, "That welcoming committee…they are just wonderful, made me feel right at home."

The other inmates forgotten, Sam, with his anger churning together with his relief, railed at his brother, his voice rising, "Well you opening your mouth isn't helping, Dean! Why can't you …

"Why can't you!" Dean shot back. "You practically signed me up for execution with your "take my brother to the infirmary" routine. Are you hoping to be the sole owner of the Impala before the end of week or what?"

"Yeah, Dean. I devised this all," Sam countered with his own brand of sarcasm, hands going out to his side. "You muttering away in Latin, us getting railroaded into some work camp, you rallying your own hate club to toss a rope around the nearest tree they can find to lynch you. Yup, it's going just like I planned."

Sensing the edge his brother was teetering on, Dean soothed, "Calm down, Sammy."

"Calm down! Dean that guard almost put you in a wheelchair!" Sam returned, hand raised, finger pointing outside, indicating the departing guards.

"Yeah, these guys are wound a little too tight, I got that," Dean conceded, then he snapped his fingers. "Drugs, maybe they're running a drug traffic ring here and they needed to build a back-road route …"

"Ah, come on!" Sam protested, almost a whine to his tone. "Building a road for drug trafficking?! Are you serious?!" But Dean didn't answer, instead his eyes centered on something coming up behind Sam, jerked his chin forward to indicate to Sam to watch his back. Swiveling around, Sam found one of the bigger of the bulky men lumbering toward them, cold sandwich in hand. Flickering his eyes quickly to the front of the room, Sam saw that the grocery bag had been ripped and sandwiches were spilling from it, sandwiches that were quickly being snatched up by the other inmates. 'Dean's gonna be pissed if we miss out on supper,' he thought and almost immediately laughed at how stupid a thing that was to worry about, given their present circumstances. Shifting his look again to the inmate who now stood in front of him, Sam straightened to his full 6"4' height and still felt dwarfed by the 6"6' older man.

"Get your sidekick off my bunk, now," the man lowly ordered, his eyes boring into Sam's, the view of the portion of the man's ground up sandwich in his mouth making Sam's stomach roll.

"Yeah, sure, sorry," Sam amicably said, swinging around, surprised to find Dean wasn't protesting, was already pushing himself upward. Was just as equally unsurprised that Dean knocked his hand aside, refused his help with gruff pride in front of these hard core men. It didn't stop Sam from stepping closer to his brother, hands ready to latch onto Dean if he faltered.

Gaining his feet, Dean straightened, hated that he couldn't prevent the wince from contorting his face. Waving his hand to the bed, giving the lumpy mattress back to its rightful owner, Dean skirted the bigger man and walked toward the sandwiches, Sam at his side, matching his slow gait. He halted as another inmate stepped into his path, two of the Baloney sandwiches compressed together in his right hand.

"Food's for us that worked today," the inmate said, as another inmate pushed the now empty bag onto the floor to prove the point. Kitchen was officially closed.

Dean gave his fake smile of surrender and turned around, said lowly to Sam, "You know, I'm really starting to get pissed."

"Let it go," Sam ordered under his breath, offering his small smile to the inmate before them, who hadn't taken his eyes off the new recruits.

"I'm starving!" Dean whined, eyes flaring to Sam's.

Another voice, a deep baritone, spoke from beside Sam, "So where is he from?" Turning, the brother's saw that this inmate was the smallest of the group, only 5"7' with muscle present but not bulging, his look was on Sam but he was pointing to Dean.

"Ah, Greece," Sam replied, when it generated a snort of laughter from Dean he understood the unknowing tongue in check joke, he had delivered. '_It's all Greek to me. Just great, now I've caught Dean's sense of humor and I didn't even know it.'_ Sam shoot a reprimanding glare to Dean to sober up, now, this was serious.

Another inmate joined the first man at Sam's side, shaking his head, "Nah, I'm not buying it. I think it he sounds like one of those terrorist…..".

Dean spared an 'what the heck' incredulous look at the inmate, only to discover that the majority of inmates were gathering around them, circling them. '_Ah crap, just when I thought things were looking up,_' he sarcastically sallied to himself. Sliding his hand around Sam's wrist, Dean gave it a tight squeeze, hoping the action would get Sam's attention, make him recognize the true depth of the trouble they were in. Instantly Sam snapped into warrior mode, changed his stance, took in the full threat that was manifesting around them. Releasing Sam's wrist, Dean maneuvered around so his back came up against Sam's, readied himself to do battle, was dreading the next conclusion even as it came from the gathered mob.

"You a terrorist, boy?!" a man bearing a scar across his chin demanded, stepping closer to Dean.

Knocking away the huge hand that made a grab for his chin, Dean denied uselessly in Latin, "Come on! Paranoid much!" his tone confrontational enough to not need his words interpreted.

Breaking one of the Winchester's firmest codes, Sam abandoned his post at his brother's back, choosing instead to dodge between Dean and the inmate. "He's not a terrorist," Sam announced, using his height to tower over the shorter man, anger coding his words, the submission route discarded at the hostility he sensed these men had toward his brother. "So back off," he menacingly growled, stepping closer to the inmate who seemed most likely to act upon his prejudice, to cross a line that should not be crossed, ever, to make a move against his brother.

The scarred man didn't back down, only challenged Sam, "What are you? His American contact?!"

Scowling at the view he was afforded, namely of Sam's back, Dean stepped from behind Sam, came to flank the two bulldogs standing nose to nose. Shaking his head, he snorted in frustrated disbelief, his focus on the inmate his brother was squaring off with. "Oh you're a sharp one," he sarcastically said, a goading fake smile on his face as he waged his finger at the inmate. "It's a real wonder that Homeland Security didn't draft a perceptive man like you for service."

Knowing what always came next after his brother shot off his mouth, in any language, Sam put his hand on Dean's chest and shoved his brother backward out of the inmate's swing radius a moment before the left hook, aimed for Dean's head, was unleashed. Any pacifistic notions Sam had clung to vanished as the physical attack was made against Dean, rage spiked through him, nearly blinded him as his right hand instinctively clasped into a fist.

Stumbling backward at Sam's shove, Dean growled in annoyance even as he felt the swish of the inmate's balled up fist rush by his nose. "I have this!" he vowed angrily, stepping forward to confront the inmate, to fight his own battles. He was prepared to dodge the attack from his right but had never anticipated getting nailed from the left side. When the roundhouse right cross plummeted his jaw, there was no where for him to go but down. When his already abused side and ribs impacted harshly with the floor, it elicited a cry of pain out of him. Lifting his head from the ground, Dean rubbed his hand over his aching left jaw and looked up incredulously at Sam, who stood stock still, stunned, his right hand still balled into the very fist that had sucker-punched Dean. Suddenly, laughter spurted to life in the room, none of it coming from either of the Winchesters.

"Ah crap, Dean!" Sam choked out, horrified that he had ended up hitting Dean, that he hadn't been able to sway the angle of his punch when Dean suddenly stepped forward, right into the arc of his roundhouse strike. Dropping to his knees beside Dean, Sam put his hand on Dean's side as he breathlessly asked, "Are you alright?!" Before Dean could reply, Sam apologized, "I'm so sorry, Dean. I..you….I didn't mean to," a shamed, desperation in his voice that matched the emotions pouring out of his eyes.

"Stop helping me, Sam," Dean ground out, voice husky with pain as he slid his elbow under him in the first stage to sitting up. But his brother was apparently not listening to his request because Sam got to his feet, stepped behind him and slid his arms under Dean's arms and levered his brother to his feet. Attacked by vertigo and a nauseas flip of his gut, Dean staggered, didn't go far because Sam locked his hands around his chest, pulled him back against him, steadied him for what Dean felt was the thousandth time that day. It was really starting to piss Dean off, the way the world was habitually tilting, the way people took an instant dislike to, not what he said, but how he said it and the almost constant need he had for Sam's assistance to even stand on his own two feet. Bringing his hands up to coil around Sam's wrists, Dean tried to break his brother's linked hold around him. "Let me go, Sam," he demanded, voice hoarse but no less pissed sounding.

Unlinking his hands, Sam cautiously withdrew his hold from Dean, poised to catch his brother if he faltered. But Dean's stubborn will kept him on his feet, didn't allow his body to sway or crumble. Maybe one of the things Dean knew best was how to ignore his pain, override it, pretend it didn't matter, that he didn't matter in the scope of things, not when a job had to be done. '_Or when he thinks I have to be protected_,' Sam concluded, jaw clenching because that wasn't how things were today, today he was to be the protector. Coming to flank Dean, Sam faced his agitated cellmates, discovering that the circle had been broken, that no inmates were behind them anymore. Sam knew that could only be considered good news because it was less bad than all the rest of data he had collected from their current situation.

Accepting the cold hard facts that they were simply too out numbered to beat the odds, Sam took a deep breath and pushed down his anger. Surrendering wasn't something he contemplated lightly, had been taught to not contemplate it at all, but the very last thing Dean needed right now was to get the crap beat out of him in a prison brawl. Knowing that guarding his ego and even Dean's ego wasn't worth risking Dean's health, Sam raised his hands in placation. "Listen, we're not looking for trouble. My brother's not a terrorist, he just took a blow to the head, making him speak in Latin instead of English."

"Boy, how stupid do you think we are?" an inmate shouted out from the back of the group and then the inmates took a collective step forward.

"By all accounts, pretty stupid," Sam railed back, voice rising and patience depleted. Stepping forward, he landed the first blow of the battle, his fist connecting solidly with the jaw of the man who had taken a swing at Dean. It would have made him feel better if the huge man's jaw had at least moved more than an inch. Changing tactics, Sam kicked the man in the family jewels, watched him the big man go down with satisfaction. Turning to his right, Sam watched Dean charge forward, bed mattress raised in front of him like a shield, watched with pride as Dean and his mattress turned into a battering ram, knocking down seven inmates at one shot. Trouble was, just like zombies, they were going to get back up.

Slamming his elbow into the nose of an inmate attacking from the right, Sam threw out a left hook and dropped another inmate to the ground. Sparing a worried glance to Dean, Sam shouted, "Dean behind you!" Found he could only breathe when Dean had ducked the intended blow. Quickly, Dean retaliated with a right hook to the man's gut, doubling him over. Pivoting, Dean lashed out at his original opponent, his foot impacting with the man's shin, causing the inmate's leg to crumble under his weight.

Before Dean could celebrate his victory, two inmates rushed him. Sidestepping one of the men, Dean rammed the palm of his hand into the other man's nose, breaking it and sending blood gushing. Turning his focus on the other man, the man's right cross sent Dean staggering backwards, right into the hold of another inmate who wrapped his arms around his chest, intending to hold him so the others could take their turns plummeting him.

Dean slammed his head backwards into the forehead of the man behind him, was rewarded with the man's grip loosening. Taking his opportunity, Dean rammed his elbow into the man's gut, earning him his freedom, even as he spun around and gave out a roundhouse right cross.

Occupied with his own battle, Sam delivered out punishment to the three men crowding him, with an uppercut, a backwards slap and a kick to a stomach. But even as those men faltered, there were more to take their place, Sam stumbled into the wall as a blow caught him in the eye. He retaliated with a kick and a right cross and walked across the bed to his right to escaping being pinned in, finding himself in the front of the room, pursued by the walking wounding who seemed pretty pissed. He winced as he saw Dean take a punishing blow to the jaw, stepped forward to catch Dean against his chest as he flailed backwards.

Tilting his head back so he could look up to see the face of the man that held him, Dean sighed in relief, slurred as he called out happily, "Sammy," as if he were drunk, making no move to straighten up or regain his own footing.

Seeing the blood coating Dean's lips, reading the pain in his brother's eyes, the additional bruises that were forming on Dean's jaw, fury ignited in Sam but he knew that they couldn't duke it out and win. They were good but not that good, especially since Dean was not at 100. Stepping backwards, hand wrapped around Dean pulling his brother with him, Sam saw the line of inmates approaching and knew that the chances for him and Dean to get out of this situation in one piece were limited, almost nonexistent.

Trying to regain his feet, to not be a burden to Sam, Dean was almost able to stand to his full height, only bowed slightly in deference to his ribs that were screaming obscenities. Shuffling to Sam's right, Dean put his hand out, latched onto Sam's shirt and pulled his little brother backwards further as the mob advanced. He knew that it wouldn't be long until his and Sam's backs would be against the front wall. "You want to tell them to surrender or should I?" Dean joked, marshaling his minimal strength, poised to step in front of Sam, to be the first line of defense, to be the big brother and soldier his father had raised him to be, that Sam counted on him to be.

In spite of himself, Sam snorted in laughter at Dean's bravado as they inched backwards, shoulder to shoulder, hands fisted in each other's shirts, making sure they stayed together, that neither one of them make a foolhardy, suicidal attack. Sam nearly tripped when he stepped on the brown paper bag that the sandwiches had come in, sandwiches that they hadn't had the chance to enjoy.

Leading the advance, the inmate with the scar on his chin growled, "We're Americans before we're cons, you scum sucking terrorist." He withdrew a four inch coiled length of interwoven wire from his right sleeve, gripped it menacingly in his right hand even as another inmate two down from him brandished a longer wire conceived weapon, and another inmate in the second row tossed a shank from one hand to another.

"Ah, we're screwed now….or should I say wired?" Dean quirked, shot a cocky smirk to Sam before he used his grip on Sam's shirt to shove his brother back even as he stood his guard, jutted his chin out and boldly beckoned the inmates forward with his hand. "Come on! Let's see what you got!"

It was instinctual for Sam to follow Dean's lead, to let his big brother protect him from all comers. For a moment he held to the old pattern, stayed where Dean had placed him, behind him like Dean was establishing that his little brother's value, his worth was higher than Dean's own, that Sam's life meant more to Dean than his own. '_No_!' screamed through Sam. Defying his brother's twisted idea about value and who protected whom, Sam started to step forward, to meet his fate as he should, as he wanted to, at Dean's side. As Sam's shoe scuffed the paper bag under foot, inspiration struck, a plan came out of nowhere, a crazy plan, a stupid plan but it was a course of action and it would, if not stop the inevitable, it would slow it down, make the others pay dearly for messing with the Winchesters.

Dean, catching movement to his right, spared a glance over to see Sam step forward to flank him. Sam shot him a crazy cocky smile before he held up a large piece of the paper bag, flicked a flame to life from a lighter and ignited the bag. Dropping the flaming paper onto the mattress to his right, Sam stepped back quickly as the bedspread fed the hungry flames, causing them to instantly spike higher in the air as they raced across the length of the bed, eager to feast on the mattress and pillow.

Collectively the mob staggered back with startled shouts and hurled curses, the wall of flames and heat an unforeseen determent to doing their "patriotic" duty. The scared inmate bellowed, hands raised to protect his face from the heat, "Are you insane?!"

Holding another piece of the paper bag, not yet aflame, Sam threatened, his voice as dangerous as Dean had ever heard it, "I might be. So why don't you back off **right now** so we don't have to find out how insane I really am."

Across the smoky expansion that separated the inmates from the Winchesters, Sam saw fear in some of the other men's eyes. But, in the scarred inmate's eyes, in his stance, hatred boiled, fueled by the fire. When the man stepped forward, the majority of the other inmates flanked him. '_Crap! They aren't going to back down_!' Sam realized, remembering too late his own words to Dean, '_These men don't have much to lose_.'

"Dude, where did you get the lighter?" Dean asked, praise in his tone as he shot an appreciative smile at Sam, the Winchester equivalent of a shouted 'way to go' after you score a goal in a sports game.

Shrugging, pleased at Dean's praise, Sam answered, a quick almost shy small smile slipping onto his face "I palmed it from your favorite guard, Chase when he invaded my personal space."

Dean laughed, head tilted back, enjoying himself in a room filling up with smoke, locked in with sixteen men who wanted to kill him and standing shoulder to shoulder with his sidekick little brother. "Nice one, Sammy."

The growled shout from the inmate with the shank drew the Winchester's attention back upon the men wanting them dead. "He's bluffing! This place goes up and he's toast just like the rest of us!" With that cemented conviction, the man stepped forward, front man in the approaching line of men, determined to make it through the gauntlet, to use his homemade shank on the brothers.

Shooting a look at Dean, Sam saw Dean draw back his shoulders in preparation to face whatever came next and give Sam a nod. Lighting the second piece of paper, Sam crossed in front of Dean and dropped it onto the bed on the left side of the barracks, it ignited just as quickly as the first. Stepping backwards to flank Dean, the brothers simultaneously stepped back further, away from the heat of the flames of the two bed that burned across the aisle from each other, a barrier to the men who wanted to take their lives. The din of panicked shouts and bitter curses rose, and Dean saw through the smoke that some of the men abandoned the lines of the frontal assault and ran for the room in the back, housing the outhouse like bathroom facilities. Dean numbered the remaining men at nine, odds he and Sam had beaten before, maybe, but never when one of them wasn't fully functional. Bitterly, Dean cursed his weakness even as he braced his ribs with his arm, as his head pounded and the smoky room's sharp edges blurred. But there was other factors involved in contemplating victory, like the look in the men's eyes on the other side of the flames that bordered on suicidal rage. These men were fully prepared to cross the river of Styx just for the pleasure of sinking their homemade weapons into his gut, into wrapping their hands around his throat, for the pleasure of watching the life fade in his eyes. But not his alone, but Sam's. Sam who had irrevocably linked himself to Dean's fate, had stoked the hatred, fueled the anger that burned so close to the surface with these men, men that could not be negotiated with, had nothing worthwhile to lose, not even their lives, trapped as they were here or maybe back in some prison in a life sentence.

Dean wasn't without sympathy for these men, for their fate, a fate that may be his own one day, when he could no longer manage to outrun the long arm of the law, or finagle escapes from places like this. But his sympathy hadn't drawn even one more breath of air, not since these men had decided to threaten Sam's life. "Time to make peace with God then," Dean said regret and finality in his foreign words as he took a few steps forward, and kicked the lightweight metal frame of the right burning bed. Lifting from the ground, the bed flipped over, coming down on the next bed down, resulting in ball of flame shooting up as the bed was engulfed, The remaining inmates staggered back, fear overriding anger. Sam matched Dean's actions, using his burning bed like a birthday candle to light other birthday candles.

With a powerful blast of heat and the full wall of flames blocking them off from the other inmates, the brothers retreated, their shoulders bracing against each other as they did so, until their backs pressed against the wall. With a shared look they headed to the only fresh air source, the window in the door and began yelling out the window for all they were worth. "Guard! Fire! Guard! Fire!" Together they sent powerful kicks into the metal door, into the frame where the bolt held on the other side, simultaneously slammed their shoulders against the metal, but the door, the metal, the bolt, was unyielding.

Having rammed his shoulder, full force into the immovable object of the door, Dean grunted in agony, breath leaving him, legs crumbling under him, he slid down the door, Sam's hands slowly the descent, his brother's strength settling him on the floor with gentleness.

His back to the fire, crouching down in front of Dean, Sam huddled closer to his brother, one hand still wrapped around Dean's bicep, the other clutching the front of Dean's shirt in his closed fist. As the smoke thickened around them like a black fog, Dean coughed first, was soon curling forward, arms bracing ribs that protest even forceful breaths let alone the jarring of coughing. Breaking into his own coughing fit, Sam leaned over Dean, his forehead coming to rest on the top of Dean's bowed head, his left arm slipping around to Dean's back. Drawing his t-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth as Dean had already done, Sam steadied Dean against him, was determined to cocoon his brother in the pocket of fresh air that still existed between them for as long as he could.

But as the smoke rolled in thicker, even on floor level, air burned in their lungs, ate up every breath they struggled to draw, attacked their eyes like tear gas, making tears streak down their blackened faces. Sliding closer to Dean as he struggled to breathe amid a long hacking cough, Sam held tighter to his brother, despair washing over him. '_I've killed us! Great plan, Sammy, you did a wonderful job protecting Dean. 'Kill me to save me' wasn't how he wanted to save Dean, or even how he wanted Dean to save him.' _

"It's alright, Sammy. It's alright_," _Dean wheezed out between coughs, hand gripping Sam's shirt, unable to raise his head to see his brother but knew that he didn't have to, he and Sam knew how they felt about each other. They said it a thousand different times in a thousand different ways, on each job, in every day, with just one shared look.

"Dean," Sam brokenly said, shaking his head because it wasn't alright, he had failed Dean, had failed to protect the one he loved the most. "I'm sorry, Dean," his words shattering, Sam knew the tears streaming from his eyes now weren't caused by the smoke.

"For sucker ….punching me?" Dean purposefully misinterpreted, his cough, gasp for breath tarnishing some of the wise aleck tone but not destroying it. "I'll take …that as your ….rain payment ….you owed me."

"Rain what?" Sam asked in confusion, face screwing up amid the black smoke.

Raising his head, his soot covered face matching Sam's, Dean clarified, fighting down the coughs that punctuated every other word, "Rain payment…. you know for me …swinging on you …with Gordon."

"You mean rain-check?" Sam interpreted, a laugh mixing painfully with his coughs.

Dean's blackened features formed a scowl, "You're picking…. on my ….Latin?! _Now_?! _Here!?_ When we're…. about to go….all…. crispy critter!?" but there was humor in his tone, a cocky gleam sparking even from his red rimmed, teary eyes.

A surge of love for his brother filled Sam's lung more fully than smoke ever could. There was no blame in Dean's eyes, not even any harbored regrets. If this was their collective fates, so be it. It was enough for Dean that they were going out together. "Jerk," Sam lobbied at Dean, the endearment choked, not by smoke but by love.

"Prick," Dean replied with equal love, raising his hand, he rested it against Sam's neck, gave the younger man's neck a gentle squeeze. But his hand slipped away as his coughs became more intrusive, bowing him over his stomach, stifling even the shallow breaths he was struggling to take. Only the feel of Sam's breath on his hair, his brother's arm wrapped desperately around his back, Sam's presence made Dean forge through the agony that every breath exacted. He would not abandon Sam, could not, not until the very end, not until Sam no longer had need of him.

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TBC

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Well, I think you are all starting to realize why those bad Winchester boys ended up in that hole……

Thanks so much for everybody still tuning into this story!!! And a special shout out to those wonderful people who chose to bless me with their thoughts, encouragements and insights! Hopefully I'm back on track and will be up to replying to your messages from here on out!

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W


	6. Holed Up

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors Note: First, thanks go out to Roxy071288 and Lp29 for dropping those reviews today, asking for more of this story. I've been in a slump and was just going to let the story stew a little bit because I couldn't get this chapter hashed out the way I wanted it to go. But due to their encouraging words nicely timed, I'm decided to just go ahead and post the portion I have done. As a result, I hope the chapter's not too short or worse, pathetically lackluster.

Secondly, I've decided to up the rating on this story to a T because of the violence in upcoming chapters. However, I don't believe that the violence is harsher than what the show itself has shown, or alluded to. I mean, let's face it, these boys don't usually end up in nice bedtime stories and the "prison" I've stuck them in isn't gonna win any awards.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 6: Holed Up

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Gasping for breath, unable to draw enough clean air into his lungs, Sam didn't need to open his eyes, move from his position hunched over Dean to know that the fire was gaining ground, was finding the floor to its liking, was inching its way toward them. '_Do something_! _Do anything_!' screamed through Sam's head, panic taking hold because hope was starting to be in as short a supply as oxygen. It was slowly being snuffed out by the soiled air that gagged them, by the onslaught of heat that threatened to ignite the back of his shirt, was rapidly being extinguished by each desperate wheeze that rasped from Dean, by the feel of his brother's trembling hand on his knee as Dean tried to brace himself so he wouldn't pitch forward, wouldn't collapse against his baby brother, wouldn't burden Sam.

Hearing Dean draw in a long hitched breath, feeling the grip his brother had on his shirt loosen, Sam pulled Dean closer, determined to replace Dean's waning strength with his own. His actions brought Dean's head forward to rest against his chest just above his heart. Tightening his hold on the strong body being wracked by coughs, Sam railed against the stark awareness that was coiling around his soul, the awareness that, with the last remnants of his strength, his fortitude, his protective brotherly love, Dean was waging his last battle.

Raging against Dean dying, fighting against his own death, Sam unleashed a guttural growl of protest, of anger, of implacable resolve. '_We're not dying here, Dean, you're not dying here, not if I can help it,_' he silently promised, willing to risk everything, prepared to abandon caution, to face his fears, to disregard any trace of shame that would try to flicker to life at his next actions. Here, now, the truth which had become clearer and clearer in the past months finally crystallized. '_If I lose Dean, what will it matter if I go darkside?!' _

'_It won't matter, at all_,' Sam knew and then, without qualms, he sought to wield his freaky telekinesis abilities to save them, to save Dean. Visualizing the barrack's door opening, the bolt moving, Sam clenched his teeth when the door his shoulder leaned upon did not move, did not give a millimeter. Changing tactics he let his fear drive him as it had in Max Miller's house, allowed his greatest fear to slip its leash, to stalk through his soul. And it seared hotter than any mortal flame ever could, the thought of losing Dean. Instead of smothering the embers, Sam fueled them, let the agony and grief at even the _thought_ of his brother dying, rip into him, shred him. Then he molded that pit of despair into a push aimed at the door, at the only thing standing between him and Dean living or dying.

When the door swung open, stealing away the support to both Sam and Dean's shoulders, the brothers toppled out the door. Spilling unceremoniously onto the ground outside the barrack door, the Winchesters greedily drew in oxygen, choked out hacking coughs like drowning victims. Still blinded by burning eyes and welling tears, Sam couldn't see what his cheek had impacted with but knew it wasn't hard packed dirt, that it felt suspiciously like shoelaces.

Having stumbled back as the Winchesters fell from the door he had opened, Chase found himself choking as smoke wafted from the barracks. "Fire!" he bellowed, leaping over the crumpled form of Sam and into the barracks, skidding to a stop at the wall of flames. Flying from the building he yelled louder and with more urgency, "Fire, wake up! Fire!!" as he ran for the supply shed.

Afraid that he and Dean would get trampled under the wave of rescuers, Sam, amid his gasps for breath and choking, levered himself to all fours and crawled over to his brother. Dean lay on his side where he had fallen, eyes closed, cheek pressed into the ground, knees drawn up, still harshly choking on the smoke that had weaved itself around his lungs. Putting his hand on Dean's shoulder, looking down at his brother's soot blackened face, Sam said around the cough thickening his throat, "We gotta get out of the way, Dean."

Knowing the wisdom of Sam's words, Dean opened his eyes and nodded his head in agreement even as coughs still wracked his body. Putting a trembling hand on the ground to lever himself upright, he found that he didn't have the energy for that task, that every ounce of strength he had was being utilized to breathe, to not hack up a lung. Sam's tender promise of "I gotcha, Dean," should have ignited indignation in him, instead relief and love for his brother washed over Dean. Without protest, in body or spirit, he let Sam roll him onto his back, felt Sam's hands slip under his arms, lift his head and shoulders from the ground. Then Sam was dragging him away from the doorway, away from the blazing barracks, out of harm's way. When the motion stopped, Dean found himself, not settled back again onto the hard ground but unto the bone and muscle that was Sam.

Having moved a safe distance from the danger, Sam sank to his knees and drew Dean against him. With his brother propped against his knees, his head against his chest, Sam slid his arm across Dean's chest, unconsciously fisted his hand in Dean's shirt. Silently he watched Chase and three other men charge into the barracks, fire extinguishers in their hands. And only then did Sam allow himself to think about the men trapped in the barracks, men he had trapped, maybe had sentenced to death. Guilt hit him then but it didn't have the power to generate regret, not with the feel of Dean's heartbeat against his chest, the sound of Dean's stifled coughs louder to him than the shouts coming from the barracks or the rescue workers. Those men had wanted to kill his brother and he had stopped them by whatever means necessary. Suddenly, Sam remembered the sound of Dean's soft, weary, ashamed voice in that cabin in the woods, '_For you or dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill it just…it scares me sometimes.' _

For the first time, Sam fully understood what Dean meant with those words, with his confession. Felt the same emotions burrow into him, scorching a path through his conscience, his morality, his heart, leaving him wondering what he _wouldn't_ do for Dean, to save Dean. Murder, or, if you were squeamish about semantics, manslaughter, could be taken off the 'wouldn't do' list. Even if by some miracle no casualties marred his record today, Sam now knew what he was capable of. Someone else's life stacked up against Dean's? No contest, no hesitation, so little guilt it made his stomach roll. And dabbling into the freak zone, drawing on some twisted "gifts" given to him for some evil plan to decimate the world, that too came off the list of things he wouldn't harness to save his brother. '_Or tried to harness_,' he chided himself, a smile creeping unto his lips, felt insane for it's presence but couldn't cut off the bitter snort of laughter at the absurdity of what he had tried, at what he had thought _he_ had done.

"How about sharing the joke with me?" Dean rasped out, his voice raw from the smoke, as he shifted, attempted to sit up, to disentangle himself from his brother's lanky form. But he had barely managed to raise his head off of Sam's chest, to lever his back an inch away from the support of Sam's body before Sam's arm increased its pressure on his chest, pulling him back down. With an exhausted grunt of defeat, Dean collapsed back against Sam, was surprised when Sam's arm, instead of loosening, took up the slack and wrapped tighter around him.

Trying to pull in enough air to protest his brothe's manipulations, Dean felt Sam's fingers coil more of his t-shirt in his grasp with unhidden desperation. The hold was familiar suddenly, the arm bracing him, the strength holding him upright, holding him back. It reminded Dean sharply of his father, of the way his father had held onto him a few times, holding him back from danger, protecting him, even relishing that his son was alive, maybe even to reassure himself that his eldest son was still with him, wasn't hurt.

The notion that Sam was clutching onto him for the same reasons as his father once had…it foiled Dean's plan to escape his little brother's coddling hold. Foiled it like nothing else ever could because Dean had _missed _being protected, had missed knowing that he was _needed. _His father may not have said that he loved him but he had always fiercely protected him, had left no doubt in Dean's mind that he was needed, needed to take care of Sammy, to stitch up his father's wounds, to watch his father's back, to simple be there, to stay.

'_They don't need you, not like you need them_,' unexpectedly sneered in his head in his father's voice, dissecting him once again, making him doubt what he knew, thought he knew. His father _had_ needed him, had begged him to not leave, to not run off like Sam had, to stay with him, to stay safe, it couldn't matter that his father was drunk when he had made the plea. And Sam needed him even after the danger had passed, the tight hold his brother had on him right now proved it, the gesture had to mean more than Sam deserting him those two times, three times if you counted Stanford. Sam's voice jolted Dean, made him remember that he had asked his brother a question.

"When the door opened…I …I thought I …had.. you know…" Sam stammered, feeling vulnerable, exposed, terrified that Dean would hate that he had been willing to tap into the darkside even for their survival. Here he had been telling Dean how he didn't want to go evil, that Dean had to _kill him_ if things started going that direction and now he had welcomed the gifts, had run down that path, willing to take whatever consequences there were just to save…. '_There is nothing __**just**__ about saving Dean's life_,' Sam refuted mid-thought, finding his decision cemented for him, no matter Dean's reaction might be. Because, if there was one thing Sam had come to know in the past two years with his brother, it was that Dean wasn't the best person to rate his own worth, to decide what measures should be taken to save him.

At Sam's pause, Dean supplied the conclusion Sam seemed reluctant to make, "Used the force?" hoping Sam attributed his rough voice to the smoke inhalation.

"The power? What power??" Sam asked in confusion, looking down he found he was only afforded the view, not of Dean's face but that of the top of his brother's head.

"No! The force, like Luke Skywalker," Dean impatiently clarified, wondering how the kid could get a full ride to Stanford but couldn't figure out blatant movie innuendos.

Catching onto Dean's meaning, Sam shook his head though Dean couldn't see it. "Force is _vin_ in Latin, you used _vis_ which implies.."

"Like a need another Latin lesson from you, scholarly boy," Dean countered, his words biting now as his barriers crumbled, the physical blows and emotional blows taking their toll, making him feel vulnerable, angry. Resolved to pull from Sam, Dean raised his head, readied his body for the upcoming motion. Sam's response to his words caught him totally off guard.

Spontaneously, laughter burst from Sam as he repeated incredulously, "Scholarly boy! Scholarly boy, Dean?!"

"Shut up!" Dean growled with a chuckle, feeling some of the tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation, loosen at Sam's laughter. Surrendering his fight, Dean dropped his head back onto his brother's chest, felt the vibrations of Sam's laughter through their physical connection.

Then silence fell between them, their eyes fixed on the barracks where more and more men entered the fray against the fire, where they had yet to see one survivor crawl from the structure. And Dean's doubts about his brother needing him dissolved as it struck home what Sam had done in the barracks, what he had risked to save him, what lines he had crossed without hesitation, _for him_. Dean felt like the worst brother in the world for second guessing Sam's loyalty, his love, for letting Sam get backed into the same corner he had.

"They gave us no choice Sam," Dean gently declared, his voice quiet now, reserved, reverent, sad, maybe not for the lives that might be lost but certainly for the weight their deaths would add to Sam.

"I know," Sam agreed with conviction. Then he drew in a shaky breath and said with a voice that trembled, "They would have killed you Dean," unnerved that, once again, it wasn't something supernatural that had posed the greatest threat to Dean's life.

"And you too, Sam. Especially after your burning bed routine," Dean pointed out, cursing himself for putting his brother in danger, for forcing Sam to take drastic measures to survive, eyes still on the barracks hope not yet lost.

A moment later, when the first coughing inmate stumbled out of the barracks undeniable relief doused the brothers, relief that built upon itself as one inmate after another made their way outside. "They all made it," Sam announced as he released a long held breath, watching as the inmates milled around the barracks, coughing, sitting on the ground, wiping ash and soot from their faces. And if any of their eyes clashed inadvertently with Sam and Dean, they looked away quickly, their previous anger replaced now by healthy fear.

"That would have been a great distraction to make an escape," Dean pointed out evenly, no condemnation offered, not moving from his slumped position against Sam.

"Yeah, it was a real winner, Dean. Except we couldn't even stop hacking long enough to get to our feet let alone outrun anybody chasing us through the woods, not to mention it's getting dark and a storm's moving in," Sam countered, his words stinging with disbelief and censure that Dean could suggestion escaping on foot when he could barely draw in a breath, was hurt.

'_You could have_,' rang through Dean's head but he simply nodded instead, let his brother feel the gesture against his chest. "Yeah, alright, next time," he dismissed the wasted opportunity even as he swore he wouldn't let Sam miss another, wouldn't let Sam throw away a chance to get out, to get free. Watching as the inmates started to shake off the effects of their ordeal, Dean joked, "So, bunking with those guys in a burned out barracks is going to be fun. Think we'll get to call our beds this time? You know what, it doesn't matter, any lumpy mattress will do."

"Chase doesn't look like he's coming over here to give us dibs on the remaining beds," Sam lowly said, not liking the energy bounding off of Chase as he stalked toward them, all pretenses of calm power missing in this encounter.

"Up, Sam," Dean hissed, unnecessarily because Sam was already in motion, was, a moment later, gently pulling Dean to his feet as he himself stood. Unwilling to relinquish his supportive grasp on Dean's bicep, Sam stood at Dean's side, and steeled himself to face whatever retribution Chase concocted, knew Dean was posed to do the same thing. Neither brother was prepared for Chase to simply bark out a curt order of "Bring 'em" to the two guards that flanked him.

Pushed forward by the two other guards, Sam and Dean with their shoulders close enough to touch, trailed behind Chase, finding the volatile man's quiet an ominous sign.

Coming to an unannounced halt in the western quarter of the courtyard, Chase swung around and noted the two men's stances were rigid, defiant, bold, challenging. "You two think this is boot camp, don't you? You don't have a clue how bad things can go here," he hissed, hands clenched but there was restraint here that had been lacking in the barracks earlier. Stepping forward into Dean's personal space, he confided, "My bet is still down on you not living to see tomorrow night, runt," his breath hitting Dean in the face.

Not suicidal enough to severe the guard's last nerve by cursing him in Latin, Dean returned the barb with the cockiest smirk he had in his arsenal. He was surprised when Chase's hand didn't land a blow but instead gripped him behind the neck and shoved him forward. Dean barely managed to skid to a stop at the edge of a hole in the ground, sending loose dirt down into the depths.

Unable to see the bottom of the hole now that night had fallen, Dean knew the hole wasn't more than six or seven feet deep by the length of time it took for the debris to ping as it struck the bottom. '_Solitary confinement, old world style,_' he surmised and almost unleashed a whining sigh. '_So much for sacking out on a lumpy smoky mattress tonight. Well, things can't get much worse," _he sourly hazarded. As if on cue, lightening lit up the night sky the next second and he saw the other furry patrons of the hole. Yeah, that ole Winchester luck was holding.

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Tbc

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Again, I really was hoping to get further in the story but penning this chapter was like pulling teeth. Hope you're not too disappointed that the storyline didn't progress further. I'm just struggling right now to figure out what ideas work for this story and what ideas have to be tossed aside. But don't worry, I know the essential plotline it's just those tricky side paths I enjoy taking so much that get me in trouble…like throwing in references to the past.

Truly I'm honored that you've taken the time to read this chapter, to stick with the story. As always, I love hearing your thoughts, and so appreciate your encouragement to keep writing, to keep posting, to keep torturing the boys…I mean, to keep _writing_ about the boys.

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	7. Ditching Work

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 7: Ditching Work

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Pain resonated through Dean as he lay on his wounded side on the hard packed earth of the hole, the occasional rumble of thunder and light show overhead spiking the headache that had never really left him all day. But Sammy was at his back and that was enough to allow him to skim the precipice of sleep, to drop his guard and let his body win this round. Releasing the deepest breath he could from his charcoaled lungs and that his bruised ribs would allow, Dean surrendered the battle to stay alert. Only to jolt awake a few moments later when he felt little feet climbing up his chest. With a mixed cry of fear and angry, Dean jerked upright, his actions dislodging the rat that was using him as a jungle gym. Frantically scurrying backwards, he saw, amid the lightening, that two rats were congregating against the corner right in front of him.

"What? What is it?" Sam demand, adrenalin pumping at Dean's hasty retreat, a retreat that was halted only by the collision of Dean's back with Sam's long legs. Having instantly abandoned his slumped position against the wall at Dean's first reaction, Sam sat up and gripped Dean's arm, desperately scanning the hole for the threat without the aid of lightening.

"Rats," Dean snarled, sending one rat to his maker under the crushing weight of his boot, causing the rat's companion to run for his life, right toward Dean. Dean erupted in what Sam thought was the Latin version of a curse. As the night lit up, Dean swept his hand out, viciously sideswiping the rat that was an inch away from his hand across the expansion of their little prison.

"Dean, there are just rats, man. Calm down," Sam pacified gently, surprised by the real fear he felt coming off of Dean.

"You calm down! I'm not sleeping with rats, Sam. I'm not," Dean lowly growled, his eyes flickering across the dark floor, searching for movement.

"They won't hurt you…" Sam assured, using his calm, soft voice, his hand tightening reassuringly on his brother's bicep.

"That shows what you know," Dean shot back, pointing at the rat the lightening now allowed him to spy in the far left corner. "There!" he cried out, intending to cross the small space and finish off the rat. His actions were thwarted by the stab of pain that erupted from his side as he attempted to come off the ground. "Agh.." he grunted out, hand flying to his wounded side as he fell backwards against Sam's legs, his brother's suddenly tight supportive grip on his arm keeping him from tumbling back far enough to knock his head on the wall behind him.

Hearing Dean's cry of pain, feeling the trembling of Dean's body against his legs, Sam was overcome with the need to do something to make things better for his brother, even if it was simply taking out a rat or two. "Fine, I'll get rid of the rat just don't move around a lot," he ordered in a voice too gentle to be threatening, sliding his feet from behind Dean, still gripping Dean's arm, steadying him.

"Two, there are two rats, Sam. I don't know where the other one's at but he's in here with us," Dean pointed out, using his hands to push himself back into the corner with a grimace that Sam couldn't see in the dark.

Getting his feet under him, Sam stood hunched over in the five foot space with Dean seated to his right, waiting for another round of lightening. Sam almost jumped when Dean smacked him on the ankle and groused, "What are you waiting for? Him to start singing a song! Step on him already Sam."

"I would if I could see him, Dean!" Sam countered, exasperation coating his tone. And then the lightening came. Stepping forward, Sam brought his foot down toward their furry roommate even as Dean yelled, "There!" Sam's foot impacted with the floor of the hole but nothing else. Before he could determine in the dark where the rat had fled to, Sam felt something on his leg and it wasn't Dean's hand this time. A squeal of horror and surprise erupted from Sam. Frantically, he blindly brushed his hands down his leg, hating when they made contact with a small furry body even as his actions freed him of the freeloader. Dean's chuckle wasn't something Sam expected to hear.

"Now who needs to calm down, Sammy," Dean taunted, but a moment later when the rat made tracks his legs, he used the wall at his back to push himself to a hunched stance to match Sam's. The brothers' eyes met as they both stood, shoulder to shoulder, stooped over in the five foot hole.

"This is ridiculous you know that, right?" Sam said but there was humor in his voice. "We fight the evilest things ever to walk the earth and we're cowering because of a rat."

"Two rats," Dean corrected again, sending a smirk Sam's way. "So let's take them out already. You go left and I'll go right."

"Yeah, like we have any other direction to go in this box," Sam groused but then he turned his focus to his left, eyes squinting to determine the contours of the floor. He felt Dean move behind him right before a squeal pierced the air and then silence fell. Thunder cracked and then, right on schedule the lightening came and Sam saw his prey and he dispensed the rat with one solid booted kick. "Mission accomplished," he said, his breath coming harder than it should when he was only up against a stupid rat. Bending over, he picked up the rat by the tail and tossed it into the corner where Dean's first kill lay crumpled.

Dean toed his own rat over to join the others, then took a step backwards until his back rested against the wall and he slid to the ground, arm wrapping around his waist, his brother's hand coming to rest on his shoulder. As he sat on the ground, Sam crouched beside him, "How are you doing?"

"Just wonderful, having the time of my life," Dean answered, his voice too low, telling Sam that Dean was far from wonderful, was in pain, pretty bad pain by all accounts.

Helplessness saturated Sam's soul as he again was slapped with the cruel knowledge that he couldn't help Dean, couldn't ease his brother's pain, couldn't get them out of the hole and into nice lumpy beds, hadn't even solely taken out all the rats for his brother. Unable to do anything else, Sam sank down beside Dean, their shoulders meshed up against each other in the tight quarters. "So, you going to tell me the rat story?" he quietly prodded, looking to Dean's profile even though it was all shadows without the lightening.

"What rat story?" Dean deflected, absently toeing the pile of rats in the corner.

"The one that explains why you have this fe…" but Sam modified his word as Dean's head swiveled to him, as his brother's eyes seared into him even amid the blackness. "…hatred for them."

"Just a minute ago, you were screaming like a girl because one touched you," Dean countered heatedly.

Sam couldn't help but chuckle, "Yeah, alright," and he ran his hand through his hair and then leaned his head back against the wall. "I just thought…."

"That I wanted to talk about it?!" Dean incredulously shot back.

"Yeah, right, what was I thinking?! Dean Winchester doesn't talk about things, he compartmentalizing like any good soldier. If I ask something too close to the bone you just clam up and shut me out," Sam accused, his frayed nerves getting the best of him.

"Maybe you should take a hint and back off," Dean coldly parried.

"Yeah, right, cause not talking about things really works wonders for us," Sam snorted back, a bitterness in his tone. "Dean, why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Denying that …"

"That I hate rats, that it's been a really bad day, that I hurt everywhere. Is that what you want to hear, Sammy? So what? You want to step in and make it all better little brother?" Dean railed back, his defense mechanism coming on line full blast because he couldn't let Sam back him into a corner, couldn't let Sammy go all grown up protective Sam on him, not if he wanted to keep his crap together, not if he didn't want to truly spill his guts to Sam.

"Screw you, Dean!" Sam growled back, because Dean's tone was acidic, was taunting, daring him to do what Dean thought was impossible. And crap if making everything all better for his brother wasn't the only thing Sam wanted to be able to do. Silence fell between the brothers as the storm seemed to swirl more fiercely overhead. Angry but unwilling to break his physical connection with Dean, Sam didn't pull away, kept his shoulder mashed up against Dean's but pulled his knees up, rested his hands on thighs. "This is still about me going to Stanford, isn't it? Whatever bad crap happened to you in those four years is none of my business, right? 'Cause I wasn't there, I abandoned you and dad and nothing I do will ever make up for that. But I'm here Dean, I've been here with you for the past…"

Dean's quiet voice slashed across Sam's words like a machete. "It didn't happen while you were gone."

"What?" Sam stammered, a tremor in the one word, mind whirling with the possibilities of when it had happened, sick with the thought that he'd never known, had thought he knew his brother so well back then…now.

Hearing the disbelief and hurt in Sam's voice, Dean wished he hadn't spoken, hadn't decided to prove Sam wrong. "Why is this such a big deal, huh?" he deflected gruffly before his voice turned joking. "You don't like clowns and I don't like rats or planes or that crappy sauce on the chicken sandwiches at… "

"Dean," Sam cut in with gentle frustration, need, wanting more from Dean than smoke and mirrors, than gruff denials and another door shut in his face.

Tilting his head up, Dean looked at the nighttime sky, wished that there were stars to be seen, light to be had, warmth to be felt, nice stories rattling around in his head, stories that would make Sam laugh. But there weren't. "Just…don't, Sam," and if his voice shook, if it sounded so much like a plea that it caught in his chest, it couldn't matter, not here when it was just him and Sam.

"Alright," Sam conceded softly, brokenly, feeling like the worst brother in the world. It was his prodding that had provoked that tone from Dean, had extorted that plea from his brother who rarely ever pleaded, especially for himself, to stave off his own pain. Not willing to let a silence fall that would create a chasm between him and Dean, Sam said, striving to sound conversational, without reprove, "So you want to tell me what happened with the wolf?"

Dean snapped his look to Sam, could see his brother's face as lightening flashed overhead, could read the reprimand in the eyes he knew so well. "Here it comes," he grumbled, muscles tensing, sitting up straighter against the wall, readying for battle.

"Here comes what?" Sam asked in confusion, voice raising a little, defensive.

"The blame," Dean snapped back. "The lecture, the 'I told you so' you've been holding in."

"Have not!" Sam countered heatedly, shuffling his body to the right to fully face Dean, his knee accidentally bumping into Dean's side.

"Ahhgg.." Dean groaned in pain, hand pressed against the wolf's handiwork in his side, his other hand angrily shoving Sam's knee away from the vulnerable area. "Stay on your own side and stop moving around!"

"Dean, man I'm sor…" Sam stammered, his self hatred brewing.

"Stop it, Sam. Just say what you have to say to me," Dean demanded, geared for the confrontation, his eyes visible amid the brief flashes of lightening as they lanced into Sam's.

"You want that in Latin or English?" Sam taunted, his own temper coming to life because Dean's bad day was _his_ bad day.

"Nice one," Dean snarled, "I didn't see that one coming. So are the kid gloves off? We going to do this and get if over with? I mean, you better not wait too long to make your accusations, better do it before I go all psycho wolf, Sam. Who knows how long it'll be before I stop talking Latin and start howling at the moon, looking for livestock to chow down on. I guess the question is, are you planning to snap my neck yourself or are you going to let the guards put me down?" Dean goaded, sickly glad he could throw back the promise Sam had forced from him right back into his brother's face. And it felt wrong and yet so liberating to put that type of crushing weight on someone else's shoulders, even if it was Sam's shoulders, Sam who he had vowed to protect with his last breath.

"Don't say that, Dean!" Sam growled menacingly, flouncing to the other side of the hole, away from his brother's side, fear and anger and helplessness a bad mix coupled with Dean's taunts, gruesome predictions. "We wouldn't be here if you hadn't played the hero! You just had to go in that shed with the wolf after I _told_ you to wait for me to get the things for the ritual."

"We didn't need the ritual, silver knife slice across the throat did the job," Dean defended.

"Oh, yeah, great job that was. The shed was demolished and you.." Sam pointed across the expansion, to Dean, who was propped up against the wall. "Oh right, I forgot, you're always fine. What's a little blood to you, so your side's cut open probably exposing your organs, and who cares that you haven't been able to say one word in English since you regained consciousness. It's just another day on the job for you."

"Different day, same great paycheck," Dean drawled, a cocky smile forced onto his lips, a useless gesture since Sam couldn't make out his features in the dark.

"Stop moving your legs," Sam growled as Dean shifted his feet, unknowingly jabbing his left foot into Sam's hip.

"Give me some room to move!" Dean volleyed back, trying to move toward the wall, away from his brother's lanky frame.

"There is no room, Dean! I think that's the whole point of putting us down here!" Sam hissed, his shoulder already pressed against the wall.

Their matching glares clashed in the enclosed space, the air between them as charged as the storm clouds overhead. Where energy generated the storm, emotions drew the tension between the brothers taut, threatened to achieve the unthinkable, to separate them, to divide them, now when being united mattered the most. It was wrong in a thousand different ways in the deepest levels of what they both knew instinctively. All they had, in this prison, in this _life,_ was each other. And that had proven time and time again to be enough for them. Because when things were tallied it wasn't really about what was left, what had weathered the storm, what had endured. No, it was about what always was, them, their connection, the link that bond them as brothers, as comrades in arms, as friends, which was rooted in the deepest depths of their soul.

Suddenly a sharp crack of thunder shook the ground, startling them both. Hard on its heels, the heavens opened up, deluging the sky with water and drenching the brothers instantly. His spiked hair flattened again his head, his clothing clinging to him, Dean nearly had to shout to be heard above the downpour, "This…." but then he faltered. Frustrated, he found himself at a loss of how to express, in Latin, just how lousy this new turn of events was. Venomously he railed at the twist of fate that had the audacity to confine him to speaking in a language that apparently no one cursed in. '_Yeah they probably said some lame thing like "oh bolts of lightening" _', he sourly thought, unwilling to stoop to offering encouragement to the raging storm, even to vent his frustration and anger.

"Sucks out loud?" Sam helpfully supplied one of Dean's favorite phrases, his bangs plastered to his head, his eyes on his brother.

Dean snorted, nodded his head, sending more rain streaming down his face, into his eyes, "Absolutely," he said loud enough to reach Sam over the dim of the cascading water, bitterness mixing with relief that Sam was again talking to him.

"Yeah, I kinda noticed that," Sam agreed with Dean's sentiments, his eyes meeting Dean's as light again flickered. In that flash of light, in that one moment where their eyes met, whatever chasm that had loomed between them, flickered out, having only succeeded in forging their bond stronger than before, like folded steel.

Simultaneously the same words tumbled from them, as if their sentiments had barely been restrained, but seemingly for an eternity. "I'm sorry." Matching smirks interrupted the flow of water down their faces. Feeling like school boys feuding over something stupid, the brothers broke into laughter, the sound filling the hole, chasing away the darkness that had tried to lay claim to their spirits.

Crawling over to Dean's side of the hole, Sam sank down beside his brother, felt the ache in his chest fade as his shoulder once again pressed against Dean's.

Tension slipped from Dean as Sam willingly gave him the contact that he had desperately needed with his little brother right then. For a man born to hunt, taught to fight, Dean despised fighting with Sam, had rarely taken up the gauntlet to fight with his father. He didn't like the way it made him feel. Like he didn't appreciate his brother, his father, didn't realize that they could be taken from him at any moment, like his mother had been. And that belief had then been brutally proven true when his father had been snatched away from him. If anyone understood that life came with no guarantees, Dean did. No guarantees, no second chances, no true do overs, no matter what he told Sam. And the last thing on earth he wanted, would risk, was losing Sam, either to bitter words between them or to some sick manipulations of evil. He had lost enough, too much, was honest enough with himself to know that losing Sam in any sense would be his undoing.

"Look we'll douse your wounds with holy water tomorrow and start working on an escape plan," Sam reassured, uncertain if he was offering the words to comfort Dean or himself.

"From this hole?" Dean challenged, turning his head to face Sam, almost sputtering as rain slipping into his mouth.

"This is a work camp. They will put us to work tomorrow," Sam said, right before another crack of thunder echoed through their chests.

"Or kill us," Dean rejoined a beat after the thunder receded. "Since Chase's bet is on me not making it to evening I guess an afternoon firing squad could be in my future."

"He doesn't have the authority to kill _us_," Sam countered, frustrated at Dean's pessimism when it came to his own fate but never Sam's.

"Yeah, right, only this Dylan guy does. Who knows, Sammy, maybe he likes Latin, will think an intelligent prisoner brings a certain class to this place," Dean joked, a cocky smile in place on his drenched face.

"Ok, so you're the Latin speaking prisoner and I'm the intelligent prisoner, could work to our advantage," Sam purposefully misinterpreted, laughing at the withering glare it earned him from Dean.

Shaking his head at the audacity of little brothers, Dean bent his head down to rest against his chest, let the rain impact with the back of his head and gave his face a reprieve from the wet onslaught. "Well at least I'm finally going to get the blood out of my hair…" he shouted above the downpour.

The worry that Dean's new position, seemingly defeated posture, had garnered in Sam lessened at his brother's smart aleck retort. "It's all about vanity with you isn't it?"

"Yes," Dean immediately admitted.

Smirking at his brother's deflection, Sam surrendered the battle and rested his head back against the now muddy wall, let the buckets of water hit his face. It had been a long day and it was going to be a long night. But everything in him rebelled against the sun coming up, of facing whatever the next day held, because contrary to the Mary Sunshine act he had laid on for Dean, he wasn't feeling real optimistic himself. Felt some sick disappointment that they weren't facing certain death from something supernatural. '_Great, I'm turning into Dean,_' he sighed silently but a wide smile curved up his lips and he had to bite his lip to stifle the laughter that wanted to escape. He could think of worst fates than that.

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The rumble of a truck engine coming to life startled Sam awake, made him aware of the ache thrumming through his muscles, the absence of rain and the feel of Dean's head on his shoulder. Looking down to his brother's face, he saw the way Dean's hair had dried flat to his head making him look more the insurance sales man than dangerous hunter extraordinaire. The sight would have brought a smirk to Sam's lips at another time. Maybe even now if he hadn't been able to see Dean's blood vessels in the skin below his eyes, visible through his too pale skin, could see the scrape on Dean's right cheek, specks of glass shards embedded in his other cheek and the vicious cut into his brother's head above his hairline, all starkly obvious now that the rain had washed away the dirt, the blood that had concealed some of Dean's face, masking Dean's vulnerabilities from him.

Seizing his opportunity before Dean awoke, Sam slipped his hand to Dean's forehead and grimaced at the heat he felt there. Infection, curse from the wound the wolf had inflicted, heck, pneumonia, he knew any of it, all of it was possible. Without forewarning, Dean gave a small grunt an instant before his eyes fluttered open. Feeling tension tighten Dean's muscles, Sam soothed "Easy, it's just me," sliding his hand away from his brother's forehead before Dean could growl the order at him. To Sam's surprise, Dean did not pull away from him, instead he let his head remain on his shoulder and lifted his hand to gently probe at the wound on his head. Sam winced when Dean did.

Moving his fingers from their examination of the gash on his head, Dean rubbed the scrape on his cheek with the palm of his hand as if it were a smear of dirt he could wipe away before he let his hand drop into his lap. Swallowing, he tried to get some moisture into his mouth, to shake off the lethargy that had made even raising his hand a momentous task. Struggling just to wake the heck up, to put the pieces back together that led to him sleeping in a hole, waking up leaning against his little brother like he was a scared toddler. When Sam spoke, it rumbled through the ear Dean had pressed against his brother's shoulder. Surprisingly, just the sound of his brother's voice gave Dean enough of a foothold on the here and now to knit together the seams of reality that he was struggling to restitch.

Knowing Dean would welcome the facts over him verbalizing his concern, Sam theorized, "Heard a truck starting, figure it's almost dawn. They'll soon be loading the men up for the work detail." But it still took a fair measure of Sam's willpower to not ask Dean how he was feeling. Well, willpower and the knowledge that Dean would see his worried inquiry as his cue to slip on the brave façade, the invincible big brother mask. And as hard as it was for Sam to see Dean vulnerable, it was at least real, wasn't drawing on the meager strength Dean had in reserve.

Lifting his head from Sam's shoulder, Dean shifted upright, didn't even bother to fight the big yawn that cracked his mouth open as far as it would go. Tilting his head back, he saw the bars over head and the sky that was starting to morph into morning and heard the truck that Sam had mentioned. He turned to Sam, opened his mouth as if to speak and then he looked away, pretending that he had never made the feint to speak.

But Sam caught the gesture, was thrown off by Dean's decision to not talk. "What?"

Instead of a verbal reply, Dean simply shook his head and returned his attention overhead again. '_Chicken_,' Dean chided himself at his cowardice move to not talk, to not know if his words would come out right, come out as English instead of some screwed up language normal people used to decipher laws, medical journals, historical findings, not to vanquish evil. It was hard, wanting normal when he had thought he had broken that desire out of himself, had muffled it so brutally that it barely drew breath anymore.

"If you have a plan, now's the time to share Dean," Sam pressed, eyebrows raised, look fixed on Dean's profile.

Ignoring Sam's demand, Dean forced himself to sit up on his hunches. Winning the struggle to not grunt when the pain flared in his side, he reached his hands out to wrap around the bars.

"What? Now you're going all mute on me?" Sam prodded with gentle censure. "I couldn't get you to shut up to save your life yesterday and now…" Sam broke off, understanding spiking through him as he watched Dean push against the bars, testing them, focusing on them, adamantly shutting out his little brother's goading. "It doesn't matter, Dean," Sam softly stated. His words and tone had Dean turning his head, earned him his brother's focus, his raised eyebrows of confusion. "If you're speaking Latin or English or …or pig Latin I'm still on your side, man." Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's chick flick moment and returned his efforts to the bars that weren't budging against his strength.

"Alright, so you don't want me talking, going all girly on you then talk to me Dean," Sam parried, drawing his knees up and draped his hands over them. "You know I can recite a few poems, maybe do some lyrics of Michael Bolton's greatest hits." Dean shot a quick glare his way, warning him that he was crossing a line with that one. Sam couldn't hold back the sputter of laughter, "Come on man, we're gonna figure this out, alright. So what if you spend another day or two speaking Latin, I'm the only one around here who is good company anyway. Screw those guys who don't understand you, they wouldn't even if you were speaking English, Dean."

"Thanks," Dean shot back, eyes glowering at Sam. To Sam's credit his facial expression didn't change but Dean unleashed a menacing growl of frustration from his throat and gave the bars a vicious jerk before he sank down beside Sam again. "Since it seems I'm being forced to speak this pathetic language another day I'm going to invent swear words, give it some class."

"Oh, yeah, cause you're all about class, Dean," Sam taunted, shoulders easing at Dean's humor, even in Latin, grunting when Dean's elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

A voice fell from overhead, "Time to earn your keep," an unfamiliar guard said, as he stood beside the hole a moment before the brothers heard the lock click open. Crouching down, the guard swung the barred door open and jerked his head, ordering Dean and Sam to crawl out of their "quarters."

The brothers shared a look, a look that fortified them for what was to come, that had the power to solder some of the fissions that lay between them, strengthening the bond that made them brothers, kept them at each other's shoulders no matter the odds. Then Sam stood up, slowly, like his muscles protested the action. Reaching up, he braced his hands on the side of the hole, got his knees on the solid ground with one graceful jump. Quickly he scrambled to his feet, turned around and bent down, his hand reaching down to his brother.

His muscles still shaking from simply gaining his feet, Dean, without hesitation or pride, gripped Sam's hand tightly in his own. Their motions were automotive, when Sam pulled, Dean pushed, like they had done a hundred times before, from a hundred different graves. And like a few times in the past, Dean couldn't stifle his grunt of pain at the action. Grave digging and injuries and pain, it all meshed together in his memory.

Pulling Dean from the hole, allowing Dean to forgo the kneeing stage and go right to the standing stage, Sam hated the sound of pain that escaped Dean's fortifications. Suddenly he wished the blood and dirt from the previously day was still on Dean's face, could conceal the sickly pallor of his brother's skin, could sugarcoat the depth of the cut on Dean's head.

When Dean was on firm ground he released Sam's hand, wasn't surprised that his brother simply moved his freed hand down to lay possessive claim to his elbow. Instead of wasting energy on dislodging his little brother's hold, Dean locked his knees and waited out the tilt a whirl's ride his equilibrium was enjoying. When the guard in front of them began to speak, Dean concentrated on the words not the man's teetering form.

"Get on in that truck and so help me, you give any of us one ounce of trouble, we'll give you what for today, no lie," the guard drawled, the ice of his words stealing away the charm his accent could have welded.

In silence Dean and Sam moved forward, toward the truck, Sam's hand still latched onto Dean's elbow. Having finally disembarked from the mental tilt a whirl, Dean quietly hissed, "Let go, Sam." To his relief, Sam released his grip but when Dean flicked a look to his brother, there was no denying the worry pouring out of his brother's eyes. '_Crap, Sam. You gotta develop a better poker face! They're looking for a way to break us and you're over there wearing your heart on your sleeve!_' "This is really your fault, you know?" he lowly accused, needing Sam's anger to outshine his love, to let these guards see his brother's strength, to feel the deadliness Sam could unleash. To teach the guards the same lesson that their bunkmates had learned last night, that if you crossed a line with Sam you had better be prepared to lose everything. That was what Sam needed to project, not weakness, not worry, certainly not love.

"What?!" Sam exclaimed, nearly stopping in his trek to the truck to turn to Dean. "My fault?!"

"Yeah," Dean shot back, still keeping his tone down, his Latin for Sam's ears only. "You're the one who had to run off and go back to town instead of dealing with the wolf."

"I went back for supplies, Dean! Supplies for the ritual to take care of the wolf!" Sam defended heatedly, his tone dropping to Dean's level, knowing throwing words like ritual around was just as inflammatory as Dean's Latin.

"Supplies we didn't need," Dean pointedly stated, watching as Sam's eyes burned with a desire to commit fratricide and that _pleased _Dean. Because Sam's anger, that he could deal with. He knew where to file that, knew that it made others see his brother as a force to be reckoned with, revealed the Winchester steel under Sam's kind eyes, innocent hair style, tall frame. But it also hurt Dean to see the tender regard in Sam's eyes morph to anger, to dislike, hurt Dean somewhere down where his fortifications were weak, where Sam's regard meant more to him than most anything else.

Reaching the back of the truck, Dean saw that the truck bed was still empty, that they were to be the first workers loaded. Without looking to Sam, Dean reached for the metal bar to the right side of the back of the bed, intending to use that grip to lever himself into the truck. But Sam roughly knocked away his hand before it made contact with the bar and pushed himself in front of Dean. Gripping the bar himself, Sam used it to leap into the truck, made the act look smooth, easy. '_Show off_,' Dean mentally grumbled. His head dropped a moment in dread before he reached again for the bar, steeling himself for the painful, clumsiness of his own entrance into the truck.

But his hand met, not with steel but with flesh, namely Sam's hand. Dean's eyes shot to Sam's, which clearly said, 'yeah, you're a jerk but your still my brother and I'm going to take care of you so deal with it.' Then Dean was propelled forward too quickly to even protest, or to prevent himself from stumbling into Sam as he found himself in the truck bed. To his chagrin, Dean knew that it was a combined effort to get him standing upright, that Sam's arm on his right bicep had something to do with the fact that he wasn't listing to the left, curling over his wounded side. Instead he was standing up, mostly straight, his left arm braced across the wound, across his ribs that just refused to take the abuse in silent misery.

"Move to the front of truck," the guard bellowed from his position on the ground, his presence practically forgotten until then.

Swinging to Dean's right side, Sam kept his grip on Dean's arm and moved forward slowly, edging Dean forward with him. He wanted to ask Dean if he was alright, if all the motion had made things worse but he didn't. He didn't have to. He already had his answer by the sight of Dean's clenched jaw and the fact that his brother hadn't demanded that he let go of him again.

'_Leave it to Sam to be the bigger man, to forgive me_, _to be back to freakin' mother henning me again,_' Dean groused, knowing without looking at his brother that Sam was giving off even a stronger appearance of care and concern and worry than before. Dean's shoulders slumped in defeat, maybe even relief that the charade was called for rain, that he didn't have to keep Sam at a distance, play hardball to keep Sammy's head in the game. Sam was in the game, was already busy playing defensive. But it was a different game, a game Dean knew well, intimately, a game he played better than his father ever had. Its objective wasn't to attain victory over evil. No, its one and only goal was to protect those he valued. To protect them jealously, ferociously, without qualms about tactics or causalities, ready, willing to sacrifice himself to see the goal achieved.

As Sam guided him to a seat on the front right of the truck, Dean studied Sam's face, tried to read his eyes. His inspection didn't go unnoticed.

Taking a seat to Dean's left, assigning himself the task of protecting his brother's vulnerable flank, Sam looked to Dean, was taken off guard by his brother's furrowed, intense probing look. "What?" Sam asked, softly, wondering what question lay beneath Dean's green gaze.

"Nothing," Dean replied but it wasn't nothing. What Sam actions said were so far from nothing that it made Dean's gut clench. Dean had seen Sam don this role before, play this game that was usually his own..after he had been electrocuted, when he had been slated to die in a month's time. Sam's resolute proclamation of "watch me" still echoed through Dean sometimes, as did Sam's "I'm not going to let you die at all." And now Dean knew what he had feared was true, that Sam could play the game as well, as recklessly as he could, would play it with no regard for his own life, only Dean's. It wasn't what Dean wanted to learn, not now.

Fully facing Sam, Dean attempted to head trouble off at the pass. "Sam, if you see an opening to get out of here, you take it," he ordered, his tone hard, commanding, even in its lowest tones and in a foreign language. Sam's raised eyebrows marked his surprise and the protest glimmered in his eyes, his refusal was cemented by the tight line of his lips because Sam wasn't stupid, knew exactly what Dean was saying. "Yes, Sam. Look I'm not up to doing the whole 'Defiant Ones' thing. You know it and I know it." Further protest darkened Sam's eyes, mixing with anger but when he opened his mouth to speak Dean cut him off. "So you see a way out, you take it." And then Dean tacked on a smile, "Couple of days later, you can double back for me in the Impala."

"Double back for you?! Dean you'll be dead!" Sam hissed, voice raising, turning in his seat to face Dean head on.

"Hey, I don't need you to hold my hand. I've done some time before, once I did a few .."

"Dean, this isn't a county lock up where the sheriff's daughter is bringing you fresh apple pie every evening!" Then Sam's voice dropped lower, menacingly, "You know the second they realized I was gone they would kill you."

Dean took in a breath, steadied himself to play realist, to say what Sam didn't want to hear, never wanted to hear. "Might happen anyway, Sam." Smirked. "Let's face it, I'm not gonna be inmate of the year. And if Chase has his way…"

"Not going to happen," Sam growled, his barely controlled fury causing his hands to clench. "We're getting out of here, _together_ Dean. And that's the end of the freakin' story.

"Sam, you have to be realistic," Dean implored, a gentleness to his tone that made Sam flinch, look away, blink too hard, too many times.

"We'll steal a truck or I'll carry you out of here," Sam returned a moment later, his voice husky, and when his eyes resettled on Dean they pleaded with him to make things alright, to be the older brother who protected his little brother from every conceivable hurt. When Dean sighed and opened his mouth, Sam shook his head, "No, Dean. No. We leave together or we both stay here. Those are the only options. Period, man."

And Dean could see that Sam meant every word, meant it as resolutely as he had when he said he was going to Stanford, was leaving the life, their dad, him. In silence, Dean leaned his head back against the side of the truck and closed his eyes, not in defeat but certainly in retreat. It was strange to feel pain at the memory of Sam leaving him for Stanford and equal parts pain for Sam vowing to stay with him now. '_Make up your freakin' mind, Dean!_' Dean chided himself. '_You want Sammy to stay or go?_' But the answer came quickly, surely, was the same answer to this same question posed nearly five years ago. '_I want Sam to be safe, to be happy, to live._'

Righteous anger flared in Sam and he leaned close to Dean, hissed, "Don't you dare sit there and shut me out!" Dean's surprised green eyes fluttered open, found his own blazing eyes without trouble. "You _refused_ to leave me when we both thought I had that virus, that I was going to go all darkside, was going to kill you or infect you. I begged you to go Dean and you didn't, you wouldn't leave me. So don't you even _think_ for one _second _that I'm going to leave you behind, that I'm not just as bound to you as you are to me."

"Sam…" Dean began, so gently, so imploringly that tears threatened to gather in Sam's eyes.

"Don't tell me you're tired or sick of this life or …or fine with being in this prison, that it's penance for sins you've committed." Dean's eyebrows raised at the direct hit he didn't know Sam could make and he opened his mouth to protest, to offer up his own defense, his own reasoning but Sam overruled him. "And I swear, Dean, I'll punch you on purpose if you tell me you have to protect me, that you promised dad, that big brothers always protect little brothers. _Brothers _protect _brothers_, Dean. There's no law that says I can't do the protecting!"

"You protecting me?" Dean scoffed just to scoff, because Sam's words were cutting too close, too deep.

Instead of anger, a smirk twisted Sam's lips, "Ahhh..hurts your ego being protected by your little brother, doesn't it? Every time I save your butt you get all defensive," Sam taunted, a twinkle coming to life in his eyes.

"When have you ever saved my butt?" Dean retorted.

"Last night," Sam said with a laugh of surprise. "You have amnesia now too!"

"Hey, I was holding my own last night…" Dean refuted, knowing the extent of the lie better than he ever wanted Sam to know.

"Oh, so it's true, you do your best work lying down?" Sam goaded, smiling brightly.

"You're the one that put me on the ground! You're supposed to hit the bad guys, Sammy, not me," Dean mockily growled.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference," Sam joked, joy and pride in his eyes as they latched onto Dean.

"Yeah, keep getting your hits in. But when we're out of here and I've slept for like three days, your butt is mine, Sammy," Dean said, his threat interwoven with a promise that Sam latched onto with both hands.

Having been given what he wanted, what he needed, Sam smiled, leaned back against the truck siding beside Dean. "Oh now I'm terrified. The one time Dad grounded me you took me to the movies, Dean. And the other time, you let me go to my play practice even though Dad specifically…"

"Shut up," Dean ordered, closing his eyes again, feeling the first rays of the sun hit his face.

"Big brother is just an old softie," Sam almost sing songed.

"Am not," Dean growled, unmoving.

"Are too," Sam smirked back.

"Am not," Dean shot back a moment before his eyes flew open as he sensed that they were about to get company. Beside him, Dean saw Sam sit up straight, felt his brother's muscles tighten, as the inmates approached the truck, some baring familiar faces and other's that did not, all of them pouring out of the same barracks, barracks that didn't boast smoke and water damage.

Swiveling his look around to Dean, Sam ordered, "Don't talk around them, Dean. We don't need the other inmates pissed at us too."

Dean jerked his chin toward the approaching men. "Looks to me like they already don't like us."

Wondering what had given that impression to Dean, Sam turned around again, studied the men who he didn't recognize and begrudgingly realized Dean was right. The approaching man were united on one front and probably one front only, they hated the Winchester brothers with an unrivaled passion. "Crap, so much for gaining allies."

"Allies? Us gaining allies?" Dean jeered, snorting for good measure.

"Ok, well a few people that don't want us dead would be nice, don't you think?" Sam offered, facing Dean. Dean simply shrugged, falling silent as the other inmates came within hearing distance and begin filing into the truck bed. It took each of the brother's considerable willpower to not smirk as their bunkmates from the night before markedly didn't claim seats anywhere near the Winchesters, having learned from first hand experience that going up against them was playing with fire, literally.

When all the inmates were loaded, two of the guards jumped into the truck bed, their rifles at the ready. Then the work truck left the compound with two smaller trucks carrying other guards flanking it. Through the gate the convoy turned left off the road and onto the rutted tracks made in the underbrush. The truck listed jarringly from one side to another as it tackled the suppressed but still untamed landscape, unmercifully slamming Sam and Dean's heads back into the railing on the truck's side.

Quickly learning their lesson, the brothers struggled to inch forward in their seats, keeping their heads and backs far enough away from the side to avoid further abuse. But for Dean, the simple motion of the truck was torture, making him feel like he was in a boat in a storm instead of a land bound vehicle. All he could do was wrap his arms tightly around his ribs, feeling as if he was trying to keep his ribs from snapping like twigs and poking through his skin. As the truck dipped abruptly into a hole and seemingly bounced out of it, Dean groaned in agony, and would have toppled forward if Sam's arm hadn't unexpectedly braced his chest and his hand hadn't coiled around his arm.

Head lowered, his breath barely getting through his tight chest, Dean wrapped his left hand around the curve of the seat at his knees and pressed his right hand against the front of the truck bed. Dean didn't like to beg, had done it back in that cabin when his chest was shredded, his blood was pooling on the ground and Sam's fate was being forged. He had begged his _father_, not that thing that had possessed him. And he had begged Sam, begged him to give him time to sort things out, to decide what to do after Sam knew what his father had told Dean, the promise he had exacted from his oldest son. But those were worthy things to lose his pride over, begging to have the truck stop, to just lie down somewhere still and dry and soft, that wasn't going to happen, no matter how badly the plea wanted to surge out of him.

'_Stop acting like a wuss, Winchester. You've been hurt worse plenty of times. Just deal, think of something else,'_ he commanded himself, drew in a steadying breath that turned into a gasp of pain as the truck rocked to the left and it kept Sam's efforts and his own to keep him in his seat. Taking his own advice, Dean thought about the work detail they were heading to, the loot they were going to uncover. Sam may have shot down the oil theory and pooh-poohed the notion of a gold mine but Dean still held out on the belief that maybe they were after buried treasure, maybe from the civil war or some stolen currency from a bank heist. The military takeover idea seemed pretty lame now in retrospect, unless they were building another ho chin min trail for supplies or building another compound to house their true base of operation. No matter what, Dean hoped he could make a profit from it, pocket a few trinkets, walk away with some bills or even leaving with a few choice weapons wasn't beyond his appreciation.

When even that train of thought wasn't keeping Dean's agony at bay, the truck crested a small hill, rumbled down the decline and came to an abrupt halt that slammed Dean into the front wall of the truck bed and sent Sam colliding into his shoulder. "Sorry," he heard Sam mumble among his haze of pain, felt Sam pull away and then gently eased him upright with the hold he had never deserted.

"Guess we're there," Sam stated the obvious, sparing a glance to the other inmates who stood around them before focusing back to Dean, who was painfully without color and seemingly bending over his ribs as far as Sam's hold allowed. "You alright?" he asked, his voice gentle, concern, hovering near panic.

Dean gave a barely discernible nod of his head but to Sam the lie was like a shout that echoed through a canyon. Noting that most of the inmates had already gotten off of the truck, Sam turned back to Dean, a grim line to his lips that Dean couldn't see with his head bend down, his eyes closed. Hating what came next, Sam softly warned, "We're going to have to get off of here soon. Can you stand up?"

Dean's one word response caught Sam off guard, sliced into him. The only thing that kept Sam from being consumed by rage and unequaled frustration, of being devastated and mortally wounded by his brother's tone was the fact that the word Dean choked out wasn't said in English, thereby allowing Sam to distance himself from it, from its connotations.

"Help?" Dean croaked, realizing that maybe he didn't have any pride left, made him wonder if the brutal halt of the truck had crumbled it. When Sam said nothing, Dean forced his head up to meet Sam's eyes. Crap if Sam didn't look all teary eyed, seemed that he could only give a nod of his head in response to Dean's plea.

Without any further prompting, Sam slid his arm around Dean's waist, fastened his grip on Dean's elbow and brought them both to their feet. For a moment, Dean leaned his shoulder against him, let his little brother's strength keep him upright. Then, drawing on his legendary strength, Dean angled away from Sam, raised his head, met Sam's worried eyes and gave a nod.

Knowing what his brother's nod meant and agreeing to it were two different things to Sam. '_Like I have a choice_,' Sam despaired as he forced himself to pull away from Dean, to let his brother fend for himself. For a moment, his hands hovered millimeters away, ready to catch Dean if he should start going down but Dean kept his feet and jutted his chin forward to the action behind Sam's back.

Pushing down his worry, Sam turned his back on Dean and saw that the truck was empty except for them. Setting his shoulders, Sam, hoping to sense Dean's steady steps behind him, walked slowly to the edge of the truck bed and jumped down only when he knew instinctively that Dean was only a few paces from the edge of the truck bed. Landing lithely on the ground, Sam turned around, ready to help Dean make his exit from the truck. From behind him, a familiar voice ordered, "Get the tall one moving. I'll coddle the runt of the litter." Sam's look swiveled to the right as Chase came up beside him, his cold blue eyes fixed on Dean as he stood at the lip of the truck bed.

The guard that had stood beside the truck, waiting for the truck to empty, stepped forward, stood toe to toe with Sam, the rifle he clenched in his grasp making him brave. "You heard the man, turn around and start walking," the guard ordered, repositioning his fingers on the rifle at the defiant look he got from the taller of the two Winchesters.

"Sam," Dean barked, the warning clear, the command unmistakable. But when Sam's eyes abandoned their searing glare into the guard and landed on him, Dean could practically hear his brother's heated refusal. Knowing how well Chase enjoyed a good Latin lesson, Dean had to resort to conveying his message with the deadly stare he lanced into his younger brother. When Sam's stance eased, Dean knew Sam wasn't going to defy him. With a meaningful glance that said, 'Be careful' and 'Don't piss Chase off', Sam turned around and walked away from his brother, leaving the guard and his rifle to nip at his heels.

"Come on down, roadkill," Chase taunted, beckoning Dean with a wave of his hand and a malicious smile.

Anger and shame boiled in Dean, mading him want to retaliate or at the very least show Chase that he wasn't weak, that he might look like the runt of the litter, might resemble roadkill at the moment, but his strength shouldn't be questioned, usually wasn't questioned. '_He is hoping to goad you into making a stupid move like he tried with Sam back at the barracks. He's looking for a way to justify taking matters into his own hands to win his bet: You dead before sundown. Don't give him what he wants, Sam will never forgive you even after you're dead and buried, especially if you go and get yourself dead and buried.'_

From his new vantage point twenty yards away, Sam spared no attention to the actions of the other inmates at his back, his only focus was on his hurt brother and the malicious guard. It was a bitter realization to know that he was too far away to intervene if Chase made a true move against Dean. '_Get a grip, Sammy. Dean can take care of himself_,' Sam jeered, fighting to keep his overprotective instincts from eclipsing the facts. '_Even hurt Dean's more dangerous than anyone else I know_.' But lurking in the back of Sam's mind, amid the whole 'Dean is invincible' collage he had going was the memories of Dean barely having the strength to walk after his heart attack, Dean lying so devastatingly still in the hospital after the car accident.

Some of the color drained from Sam's face, the bravado faded in light of the resurfaced memories, and fear stretched his nerves taut. It was at that moment Dean chanced a look at him and Sam knew his brother read his emotions like a book. '_Yeah, so much for me being the tough one for a change,_' Sam mocked himself, wondering if his cheeks were blushing at having been caught looking so blatantly scared.

Having felt Sam's eyes on him like a laser sight, Dean had spared a glance to his left. When his eyes fell on Sam as his brother stood near the other inmates, a tight expression on his too pale face, Dean felt his prideful indignation at Chase's taunts ebb away. He was not alone here, in this. He alone would not pay for any retaliation he made, any measures he undertook to nurture his pride. Sam too would pay for his actions, dearly, if Dean read Chase right. Not to mention what Sam would risk to foolishly protect Dean from any harm, from any fully deserved punishment that Chase or the other guards would rain down on him. Risking himself, defending himself was one thing, putting Sam at risk, sacrificing Sam for his pride, that was out of the question.

So Dean abandoned his brash plan to leap straight from the truck bed to the ground, his ribs be danged. Instead he took a slow deliberate seat on the edge of the truck bed and then slid to the ground, his landing gradual instead of jarring. It had him ending up standing toe to toe with Chase.

Disgust, even disappointment colored Chase's expression at Dean's tame reaction to his insults. "So what? One night in the hole and you're broken in? Is that what you're trying to sell here?" Chase challenged, his voice low sneering, his blue eyes hard. When Dean made no reply in word or facial expression, Chase grabbed onto Dean's jaw with brutal fingers. "Answer me!" he yelled into Dean's face, drill sergeant style.

Sam's every nerve was searing, ready for action, geared to be put into motion, to try his best to reach Dean if Chase should press his advantage. As if the guard at his side noticed his coiled muscles, Sam found the guard stepping in front of him, his hand coming down to land on his shoulder, foolishly believing he could restrain Sam if he had to. Ignoring the guard, Sam looked over the shorter man's shoulder, kept his eyes trained on Dean, on Chase, on the battleground between the two alpha males.

Dean, knowing that there wasn't a right answer, in any language, to Chase's question, remained silent. Then in concession, Dean dropped his eyes from Chase's, submitted to the man's authority in a way he hadn't done for many people except his own father. Dean wasn't prepared for the _hurt_ that came over him, the _loss_ that blindsided him, the _shame_ that fell over his soul.

Whatever Chase expected from the defiant younger man it wasn't submission, it wasn't this surrender. And there was enough of a rigidity in the younger man's back, a strain in his neck, to convince Chase that this yielding wasn't made lightly, wasn't a deflection, was made honestly, if not willingly. It somehow soured any victory Chase might have obtained at the sight of the dropped eyes, the slightly bowed shoulders. "Get over there with your brother," Chase quietly ordered, jerking his head to the right, throwing Dean's head to the right in release.

For a moment, Dean eyes met Chase's and there was something in the older man's eyes that Dean couldn't read. Not wasting time interpreting the other man's emotions, Dean walked over to Sam. Sam said nothing as Dean came to a stop at his side but there was relief and gratitude and _pride_ in Sam's eyes. And Dean noted that his little brother's face had regained its color, he heard Sam's loud release of pent of breath and watched as Sam shook his head in dazed relief, as if he knew how close they had been to Armageddon.

At his brother's reaction, some of the shame eased in Dean, and he knew that his sacrifice hadn't been in vain. Maybe was worth it just to have witnessed that look of pride in Sam's eyes. '_Scamper away to live another day_,' Dean ruefully mocked. But he couldn't help feeling lighthearted as Sam gripped his arm and spun him around as if he were an errant school boy being hauled away from dukeing it out with the neighborhood bullies.

Shoulder to shoulder, facing the other inmates already at work, the Winchesters wore matching looks of confusion. For a moment the scene before them was all too familiar, men in holes in the ground, shoveling dirt topside. Except, unlike this pastime in the Winchester world, no grave markers were in sight and the digging wasn't uncovering caskets but was carving out a ditch down the forest floor.

Collectively, the brothers stepped forward to stand at the ledge, finding the ditches uninteresting at best. As Sam's guard came to their side, he ordered, "Jump in and get to work," thrusting shovels into their hands. Sam, sensing Dean's intentions to talk, shot his brother the sternest glare he possessed and watched in relief when Dean shut his mouth. But his relief was short lived when, a second later, Dean jerked his chin toward the guard, silently ordering Sam to ask the question that he was denied.

Sighing, Sam dropped his head slightly before he raised it again and did his big brother's bidding. "Are we …ah…looking for something?" Sam asked the guard, feeling foolish and bitterly cursing Dean's inability to speak English and ask his own dumb questions. At the guard's confused look, Sam cleared his throat, "In the ground, are we digging to find …" Sam broke off at the smirk that was breaking across the guard's face.

And then it happened like Sam feared, the guard laughed and even more humiliating, the inmates laughed. To top things off, the guard sputtered, "Are we looking for something?" Laughing even harder, he turned to the inmates, "These guys think you're mining for gold or…or diamonds!"

"Maybe he thinks we're looking for Blackbeard's buried treasure," one of the inmates said under his breath, getting uproarious laughter from his fellow inmates.

Sam shot Dean a death glare and Dean had the grace to blush. Crap, Dean hadn't been the laughing stock since high school.

Chase's voice behind Dean held a surprising trace of humor, "Sorry to ruin your Indiana Jones fantasy but you boys have the distinct pleasure of digging out a line for a housing development's sewer system." Chase let a beat of silence go before he drawled, "But heck, one man's crap is another man's treasure."

Dean clenched his jaw as another round of laughter erupted. Sneaking a sideways glance to see how pissed Sam was at him, Dean couldn't believe Sam was over there _smirking_, at _him_, at _his_ expense. When Sam dared to skim his eyes over to his, Dean wasn't sure if his message of 'Sammy, I'm so gonna kick your butt,' got through because Sam looked like he was fighting real hard not to burst into laughter.

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TBC

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Thank you all for reading this chapter! Love to hear what you think!

Have a great weekend!

Cheryl W.


	8. Crosses to Bear

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: I know, you thought I abandoned this story. I haven't but I will admit that real life happenings have left me struggling to keep my head above water. I'm sorry that I haven't replied back to reviews or emails but please know I really LOVE every single response all of you have blessed me with during the story's progress.

In case you've forgotten: Dean and Sam in a work prison camp, not making any friends, now digging sewer lines. Now back to our story already in progress….

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 8: Crosses to Bear

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Sam could always differentiate between Dean not having anything to say to him and his brother giving him the silent treatment. This was definitely the silent treatment. Tossing another load of dirt topside, Sam looked over to his left, grimaced at the sweat that was running off of Dean's face and soaking his hair. He felt an emotional pain so sharp it seemed physical as he watched Dean mimic his movements, agony contorting his face, jolting through his body. Frustrated fury surged in Sam, he could do nothing to help Dean, couldn't stop the torture that this so familiar work was exacting on his brother. On top of that, he felt like crap for seemingly siding with the guards, with the other inmates, against Dean.

"Come on, Dean. You have to admit it's kinda funny?" Sam quietly insisted but Dean's death glare proved that big brother wasn't going to agree with little brother on this one. Loading another shovel full, Sam continued, "You _were_ hoping it was going to be buried treasure or gold or oil or…" he broke off as Dean shifted his back to him, worked from an angle that shut his brother out. Sam's load of dirt flew topside with relish as did his next three loads, his focus on his brother's back however than on tracking the motions of his work.

Shooting a glance behind him, Sam noted that the guards stationed on both sides of the ditch weren't watching him. Abandoning the work, he closed in the space that separated him from his brother, stopped at Dean's back, his words spoken so quietly they were practically a whisper in Dean's ear. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to …" Sam broke off, unable to say 'betray you' because that wasn't what he had done, meant to do, ever. "It was just…you know…you …_we_ were hoping this would be something …well not fun but…" and he halted as Dean stopped his motion, stood upright but didn't turn around. From his view, Sam saw Dean clench his jaw. Desperately, Sam latched onto Dean's arm and stepped closer to Dean, close enough for Dean's back to touch his chest, for him to get a full side view of Dean's face. "I wasn't siding with them…didn't _mean_ to side with them, Dean. I just…"

Turning his head toward Sam, Dean interrupted lowly, his voice was rough with pain, exhaustion, "Yeah, I know that Sam." And a pale imitation of his smirk graced his ashen features, "Figures your crappy sense of humor would make an appearance now instead of when I'm being funny."

"You can be funny?" Sam returned, smiling genuinely, feeling a weight lift from him at Dean's forgiveness.

"Smart aleck," Dean snorted. "Now get back to work before they bring out the whips."

But Sam didn't move away, didn't release his grip on Dean's arm. "Dean, just shovel the dirt on a pile next to me and I'll toss it out," Sam whispered, his eyes imploring as they seared into Dean's.

"Sam.." Dean lowly hissed but Sam was gripping his arm tighter.

"Dean, you're not going to last the day if you don't let me help!" Sam bluntly predicted, his eyes conveying his worry and his desperation.

'_Day? I'm wondering if I'll last an hour_,' Dean thought, wishing that every breath he took didn't hurt, that every time he dug the shovel into the ground it didn't jostle his ribs, that his side didn't explode in agony whenever he turned to send the dirt sloshing off the shovel onto the level ground overhead, that his head didn't pound with every one of his heartbeats. But aloud he said glossily, "I can do this without your help, Sammy. I've been digging holes in the ground before you were walking."

Sam wanted to believe Dean's boast, oh how he wanted to believe Dean. But the way Dean's arm trembled in his hand, Dean's shallow breaths which he detected through his contact with Dean's back, it made it impossible. "Dean, please," he begged, his voice catching as Dean looked away from him, straight ahead to the wall of dirt that was to be their next conquest. "Let me help, Dean," he gently pleaded. "If you pass out or….or hurt yourself worse and can't do the work, any of it…I don't know what they'll do," leaving unsaid, '_what I can do to protect you'_ but the terror was evident in his eyes when Dean looked again to him.

Lowly, Dean countered, his head turned over his should just enough so his eyes met Sam's. "Sam this isn't a tag team sport." Knowing his brother wouldn't leave it there, Dean sighed and added, "You want to help me, really help me?"

At Dean's words, Sam's breath caught. Dean giving him an opening to help!? Crap things were worse than he thought. "You know I do," Sam earnestly said.

Sam's earnestness shamed Dean, made him discard his intended smart aleck comeback. "Just…chill, alright," Dean softly ordered, matching Sam's earnest concern with his own. "Don't put yourself in the line of fire for me 'cause you gotta be up to hauling me outta here, remember," and there was a lightness in Dean's eyes that made Sam's lips turn up in a small smile. "If you get your head bashed in and start speaking in….Swahili and seeing double then we're going nowhere and believe me, Sam, I don't want to spend any more quality time in here than I have to. Now stop living in my pocket," he good-naturedly groused, elbowing Sam playfully.

Retaining his smile, Sam pulled back from Dean and reclaimed his shovel. With a shake of his head, he began digging again, amazed at his brother's ability to make him smile, make him happy even, all while they were stuck in a prison work detail ditching a line for a sewer no less. '_Swahili?! Dean how do you come up with this stuff?! But you hit your head harder than I thought if you think I'm going to let something happen to you, something more, happen to you_,' he thought as his eyes swung constantly from the work at hand to his brother.

SNSNSNSNSNNSNSNSNSN

Owed more to willpower than physical stamina, Dean surpassed his hour prediction, was still on his feet after three hours, still kept the shovel in motion, managed to displace some of the dirt at his feet but it was a mockery of the labor. Sam was the one working overtime, desperate to make the dent in the work that two men should achieve, nudging him forward a pace or two when it came time. And to add to the overall pleasure of the day, it was humid and the sun was unmerciful, its burning rays seemingly able to ignite his skin into flames.

Bend forward, let the shovel skim the dirt, turn and toss the particles of dirt onto the level ground above, bend forward, shovel, toss, bend forward, shovel, toss. Dean did it in rhythm of his forced breaths, breathe in, hold, ignore the pain, breathe out, breathe in, hold, ignore the pain, breathe out. The task of breathing and digging ditches was demanding too much from him, both likely to be the death of him. It was a toss up which he would abandon first, the agonizing intake outtake of breath that burned his lungs, jarred his ribs, that require _effort_ or the torturous motions the digging exacted on a body that shouldn't be failing him like this, not over a little run-in with a warped wolf, a few scratches and bruises. '_Dad would be telling me to "Suck it up, Dean. You think you deserve a free ride because you let a wolf get the best of you?! How are you gonna look out for Sammy if you keel over?' _And if John Winchester could make a guest appearance, Dean knew what would be in his father's eyes: disappointment, shame, regret._ 'He would tell me that he didn't give up his life to save me just so I could cash it in on some prison work farm, so I could fail my brother, could fail him.'_

Railing against that unthinkable failure, Dean gripped tighter to the shovel. Intending to reinforce his stance, to push himself to work faster, better, he shuffled his feet. But with that minuscule motion, whatever tenacious control he had over his equilibrium fled, leaving him unsure which direction was up and which was down. Instinctively, he threw his hand out, attempting to brace his body's eventual obedience to the law of gravity even as he kept hold of the shovel, hoping to use it as a lever to keep himself on his feet. He didn't count on his legs buckling, didn't have a safety net for that betrayal.

Though Sam had worried about Dean's collapse, thought it was inevitable given his brother's injuries, the labor and the heat, it still caught him by surprise to see Dean pitching forward, his brother's legs folding under him, to see Dean's weakness in body prevailing against his brother's relentless willpower. Tossing his shovel aside, Sam dove forward, internally yelling his brother's name in panic, a yell that he could not allow voice to, not if he wanted to keep Dean's collapse from drawing attention. Wrapping his arms around Dean's waist, Sam almost lost his own footing as he struggled to take Dean's full weight into his hold, to keep Dean from collapsing against the wall of dirt. Stepping closer, he pulled Dean fully against him and slid his arm into a higher position to coil around Dean's chest.

"I gotcha," Sam gently reassured in Dean's ear. "I gotcha." Drawing Dean upright, Sam winced at Dean's ragged intake of agonized breath. Sam felt some sick relief that Dean's head was bent, that he wasn't tortured with the sight of the agony he knew Dean's face would telegraph, that his brother's green eyes would reveal.

"I'm sorry," Dean wheezed out, uncertain if he was apologizing to his father or to Sam anymore than he knew if he was sorry for failing them or just for faltering. All he knew was he owed someone an apology for this, for his screw up, for his weakness.

"Shhh, you have nothing to be sorry for, Dean," Sam softly soothed, surprised to find himself cooing to his brother. But the gentle tone had just erupted from him, sparked by Dean's broken apology, by his brother's obvious pain, by the heartbreak Sam felt at Dean's bitter defeat to his body's failings.

Sam's tone, Sam's murmuring pierced through Dean's thickest emotional walls like they were constructed of tin foil, made him remember something he thought he had forgotten: his mother's voice, the way she could soothe his every hurt, could make him believe that she could protect him against anything..everything. The breath he drew in sharply was ragged, uneven, bordering on a sob. '_Don't lose it, Dean. Just don't. You can't. Not here, not in front of Sam. Not when Sam needs you!' _And it was that last thought that allowed him to swallow down the sob, to imprison memories where they didn't hurt him so deeply, didn't have the capability to eviscerate him.

Bending his head forward to see Dean's turned down face, Sam said in that still too gentle voice, "Dean?" Worry and fear and disbelief mingled in his tone at having heard what could almost have been a sob slip out with Dean's release of breath.

"Hey, no slacking!" one of the guards growled as he took notice of the brothers' stilled motions. Stalking over to the brothers' section of the sewer line, the guard raised his foot, intending to stomp it down on the hand Dean had managed to brace on the lip of the ditch.

Guessing the man's intentions, Sam pulled Dean backwards quickly, dislodging his brother's weak hold on the ground even as it unsettled all the balance Dean's legs had been striving to recover. But in horror, Sam watched the rules of cause and effect play out on the guard. Watched, as if in slow motion, the guard's foot crash into the dirt at the very edge of the ditch instead of his brother's hand, saw the loose soil give way under the guard's forceful compression of weight. And then the guard was falling into the ditch, on a collision course with Dean.

In horror, Sam pulled Dean to the right, out of the path of the guard's unplanned descent. With that motion, Sam felt Dean's crumbling legs tangle with his own and knew he couldn't keep Dean upright, couldn't even keep himself upright. With a curse, Sam stumbled backwards. Instinctively he wrapped his arms tighter around Dean with the belief that taking his brother with him was the only way he could cushion Dean's own collapse. Sam's back slammed into the bottom of the ditch and his head connected brutally with the far wall of dirt and his brother's body collapsed on him with bone jarring force. Sam's breath was knocked from him and pain radiated from his head down his back but Dean's cut off cry of agony scattered Sam's thoughts of his own pain and distress to the four winds.

Forcefully reclaiming his breath, Sam cried in alarm. "Dean!?" Finding the arm he had coiled around Dean's torso suddenly overlapped by Dean's own arms, Sam knew his brother's actions were a desperate attempt to alleviate the agony that was exploding in his ribs. With Dean's head pressed into his left shoulder, Sam had only to turn his head to see his brother's face.

There had been a million times when just taking one look at his big brother's face had righted Sam's world, had made even the worst of situations not seem so bad. This, however, wasn't one of those times. Not when Sam couldn't detect any color gracing Dean's face, when his brother's every facial line spoke of pain, when the breath Dean drew in was a hitching sound of desperation and agony.

In confusion, Sam felt Dean's right hand latch onto the denim at his knee of his jeans, frantically curl the fabric into his fisted hand. "Dean?" he said in confusion in fear before it registered in his brain: Dean's anticipated follow up breath had not yet to come. Sam's heart jumped erratically in his chest at the knowledge.

"No, Dean, breathe!" The order, the plea burst from Sam like it was his breath that wasn't coming, was somehow inexplicably gone. Rolling to his left, taking Dean with him, Sam gently settled Dean on his side on the ground, felt the desperation increase in Dean's grip on his jeans, on his little brother. Though Sam could feel his brother's heartbeat vibrate against his chest, he couldn't detect any small intake of air, any feeble movement in Dean's lungs. Trembling, Sam leaned over Dean's shoulder, fixed his look upon his brother's face. "Easy, Dean. Easy. I know it hurts but you gotta take a breath." Wrapping his hand around Dean's shoulder, Sam rubbed his thumb along the muscle taunt under his brother's skin even as his other arm continued to brace his brother's abused ribs. "Just pull in some air, Dean," Sam pleaded, feeling helpless, terrified, lost, just like he had watching the doctor trying to restart Dean's heart in the hospital. "Do it for me, Ok. Doesn't have to be a lot just a little air, that's all Dean."

For Dean it felt like deja vu, like Tiny's massive arms were again crushing his lungs, about to compact his ribcage into an order of BBQ spareribs. And this time there were no five guards to break the decimating hold, to free him of the crushing weight, to halt its increasing pressure. Somewhere in his brain, in a small pocket that still had reservoirs of air, of consciousness, he knew Sam was there, that it was Sam's jeans that his hand clutched onto. With unfailing certainty, Dean knew it was Sam's presence alone that could ward off the agony, could tether him to consciousness, to _life._ But right then he couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat, couldn't feel much beyond the incineration of his lungs, was losing even the perception to know Sam was close, was with him.

In vain he tried to call out Sam's name, to just _breathe. _Instead, with the loss of the last of his energy, his connection with Sam flickered out, left him alone, where he hated to be. Immediately the crushing weight was too much and he couldn't fight against it, couldn't find the strength, the reserves to battle against it, to wrestle one small breath from its confines. The void came then, dimming everything he thought, but its touch felt familiar, like a foe he had faced before. Faced and won. And the part of Dean that was hunter, was John Winchester's son, believed he could win again, could always win. But the part of Dean that was the boy who had lost his mother at four, the son who had recently lost his father, that part of him understood how fragile life was, how strong a pull death welded. That boy, that son was willing to concede the battle, was ready to lay down his arms, to surrender.

Realizing that his pleas had gone unheard, unheeded, that there was a stillness in Dean, that there was a heaviness settling on his brother's body which he gripped, Sam felt his own breath desert him. "No, no you don't get to leave me, Dean," Sam choked out before desperation, panic, overrode everything, everything but his love for his brother. "You're not going anywhere without me, Dean. Now start breathing!" he commanded, his voice a steely impersonation of John Winchester when he was at his most deadly. Abandoning gentleness, Sam pulled Dean roughly into a sitting position, made sure his arm constricted brutally around his brother's ribs as he drew his brother's back firmly against his chest.

At Sam's harsh treatment, white hot agony seared across the void Dean was succumbing to. It generated flashes of light, sent them streaking across his vision, and induced a spontaneous rush of air to pour from his compressed lungs, a rush of air that articulated itself into a whimpering scream of torment.

Ignoring the spike of guilt he felt at hearing Dean's torment with relief, Sam coached, "That's it, stay with me, Dean. Now breathe in." When Dean didn't take another breathe, Sam growled, "Breathe in, now, Dean!" shaking Dean's sagging form, feeling sick at the way his brother's head limply snapped forward and came back against his shoulder.

It was like drawing in a lung full of water but Dean obeyed that voice, reacted to the tangible terror he could sense pouring off of Sam, struggled with everything he had to regain that connection, to sense Sam again, to not be alone. Drawing in that breath? C_rap, but it_ _hurt! _It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't his own breath hitching that he heard by his ear, that it was Sam's, that his little brother was struggling to breath. Pushing air from his lungs was no less painful but Dean didn't hesitate to draw in another breath, to endure the pain all over, to repeat the process again and again until the pain lessened. Did it until it wasn't a conscious effort but a natural one, did it until he heard Sam's breathe even out, until his little brother's breathing matched his own, was stable, wasn't going anywhere.

With his eyes still too heavy to open, Dean felt a hand slip gentled along the side of his neck, travel up to his jaw, felt fingers skim over his cheek and still in his hair. This touch wasn't foreign, strange like Roy LeGrange's had been, wasn't cold, painful like the Reaper's had been. This touch was gentle and familiar and possessive. He didn't put up a fight when the hand's gentle pressure guided his head to the left. Instead, he released a relieved breath when his forehead came to rest against Sam's neck, when he was finally grounded, knew up from down again, even with his eyes closed.

Dean's vulnerability wasn't something Sam wanted witnesses to, anymore than he wanted his own tender ministration to his brother to be leverage someone could try and wield against him, against Dean. But it all had been out of his control: Dean's near death as much as his reaction to that travesty, to his outward show of relief, joy at Dean's every restored breath. Raising his eyes, Sam conveyed a deadly warning to the guard that now crouched in the ditch in front of them, feeling a lethalness in himself that should have scared him, might have if he hadn't been holding up his brother who had practically been dead a few moments prior.

The guard's smile churned Sam's stomach and he tightened his hold on Dean, vowing to protect his brother from whatever punishment came next. A punishment that the guard was getting sick mirth even thinking about. "Guys, I think we have a candidate for the infirmary," the guard called out, not letting his eyes stray from Sam's.

'_Crap_. _I __know__ that's not good,_' Dean hazily quipped to himself, wishing he could unearth the strength to raise his head from Sam's shoulder, to even open his eyes. Shame washed over him when a moan escaped him as he shifted slightly against his brother.

Still reeling at the word 'infirmary', Sam felt his fortifications falter at Dean's moan, felt the sound rip through him. It was a momentous battle to suppress the lump in his throat. Dean was _hurt_, was _vulnerable_, needed _him_ to protect him, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that was starting to settle over him, the same horrific emotions that he had had while Dean was in a coma, a feeling of defeat, of failure. '_I don't know how to help you_.' It had broken him to be left with that conclusion, to say those words, to Dean of all people, the one person he misguidedly thought he _could_ protect. Even in the end, it had been his father that had helped Dean, had saved him, not Sam. No, Sam had simply stood there, uselessly, helpless, weak, watching Dean slip away from him. '_Not this time_,' Sam suddenly vowed but an instant later it crossed over to a prayer. '_God, please don't let me fail him this time, not again. Don't let me lose him.'_

Positioned as he was against Sam's chest, his forehead against his brother's neck, Dean felt Sam's rapid heartbeat pulse against him, echo through him, knew unerringly that, while Sam's outward appearance was calm, his inner workings were erratic, panicked, scared. '_And it's because of me, me and this crappy pathetic body of mine. How the heck can I expect him to look tough when I'm clinging to him like a freakin' baby?! I might as well be wearing a neon sigh saying 'Sam's weakness', or selling tickets on 'the fast track to hurting Sam.' I'm a liability to him. Crap! I'm going to get him killed!_'

Sensing movement behind him, Sam tilted his head back and found the young guard he had first seen in the barracks, Ricky, standing on the side of the ditch. To Sam's surprise, he felt a flickering of disappointment flare in him that it wasn't Chase. '_The devil you know_…" he surmised but he knew that Chase at least understood that there were rules to follow, even here. Looking back to the guard who now stood up in the ditch, Sam tried to get a handle on the man's demeanor, to gauge the level of threat he posed to Dean, to him, to their surviving another day in Camp 'This Sucks out Loud'. But something caught his attention. The sunlight was reflecting off of something the guard had around his neck, some pendent that the man wore on a chain.

"Crux." The sound of Dean's weak rough voice startled Sam as much as the word that his brother spoke. Bringing his eyes back to Dean, Sam saw that Dean's eyes were open, were fixed where his had been a second earlier: On the cross pendent dangling from a chain around the guard's neck. '_If you can't be good, be lucky,_' Sam thought, struggling not to let his lips betray him by turning up into a smile. '_Holy water, here we come_.'

The plea in Ricky's voice sounded out of place in Sam's new brighter outlook. "You can't make that decision only Chase or…"

"You see either of them around?" the guard hissed up at Ricky, his arms spread out to encompass the work detail, the woods beyond. "I'm in charge and I say this one" he snarled, pointed to Dean, "goes to the infirmary. He shoulda gone there last night, both of them should have. Chase is getting soft."

"Bill, there are rules…" Ricky countered, showing more backbone than Sam would have given him credit for. Somehow, the energy Ricky was putting into this argument worried Sam, made him certain he didn't want Dean going to the 'infirmary.' Unconsciously, he gripped tighter to Dean, even as he contemplated slipping out from under Dean to position himself protectively in front of his vulnerable brother.

"Yeah, and rule number one is '_if they can't work they go to the infirmary_.' No exceptions!" Bill's raised voice caused all the other workers to halt in their tasks. "Hey, I _liked _Grayson and I carried him there myself. These two…we don't even need them. We're ahead of schedule."

Having been focused on the conversation, Sam was unprepared to have another guard drop into the ditch just in front of them. Sam recognized the man as Leon, the guard who had led them into the barracks when they first arrived.

"So, the Zombie's finally ready to lie down and die. About freakin' time!" Leon gloated, his gaze switching from Dean to Sam. "Putting out that fire last night sucked. I'll gladly haul his carcass to the infirmary for that," he offered to the guard at his side, eyes again fixed on Dean with a deadly gleam that matched Bill's.

Dean gave a small bitter, tired laugh and rolled his head left to right on Sam's shoulder in disappointed wonder, his eyes never leaving the two guards standing in front of him. "Sammy, this is like being trapped in one of those lame 80s tv shows, you know, where the heroes get thrown into a corrupt prison and all the guards have it in for them."

Dean's Latin had both of the guards standing to their full height, not in understanding but confusion, fear. "Dean, zip it," Sam hissed between his clenched jaw even as he thought, '_Ah crap, here we go again_,' hand fisting tighter in Dean's shirt.

Bill cursed and swiped a hand across his mouth before leaning toward Leon, "Any of that make sense to you?"

"Nope," Lean replied but turned a full fledged smile on Bill, "but I'm thinking he said he wants to die." Then in one motion, the men stepped forward and wrapped their steely grips around Dean's arms.

"No!" Sam yelled, doing the only act of defense his position afforded him: tightened his hold on Dean.

Down but not out, Dean kicked Leon in the groin, causing the man to lose his grip on him and drop to the ground in pain. In reaction, Bill stepped closer, reaching for Dean's other arm when Dean fisted his right hand in the guard's shirt and weakly yanked him forward, but it was enough to topple his attacker's precarious balance. As Bill pitched forward, Dean slammed his left elbow into the guard's jaw.

Knowing the unholy retaliation that would be waged against Dean, Sam knew he had to get to his feet, had to get Dean on his feet. Though Dean was making his own weak attempt to get off of Sam, to stand up, it was Sam's strength that enabled the Winchester brothers to climb to their feet. His strength too that allowed both brothers to _stay_ on their feet. Sam's intent to shove Dean protectively behind him had bitterly been discarded as Dean stumbled against Sam, his legs refusing to lock into position. So with a grimace, Sam was forced to wrap his arm around Dean's ribs to keep Dean upright, hating to think of the agony his 'helpful' gesture was causing his brother.

With dread, Sam watched Leon and Bill recover from Dean's abuse, their eyes conveying their fury like a neon sign. In slow motion, Sam saw Leon reach out, fist a hand in Dean's shirt, saw Bill pulling his handgun from its shoulder holster. The sound of a gunshot brought everything to a halt.

Instantly, all the combatants' heads swiveled left, surprisingly to Ricky who was lowering his just fired .45. The guard wore an angry, dangerous look that didn't seem natural on his youthful features. A look he bestowed, not on the two 'inmates' but on the two guards. "You want this to get out of hand!?" he hissed lowly, his eyes making a slow travel to the other inmates in the ditch, who were watching the show, anticipation, hope, beginning to spark in their eyes, a readiness to flee if the opportunity presented itself conveyed by their stances.

Coming back to themselves, to the job they had, the rules they had to obey, Bill and Leon seemed to douse their angry, to reforge it..into cold determination. "Nothing's getting out of hand. This one's just gonna disappear," Bill drawled, stepping right up to Dean, his breath hitting Dean in the face. "Get out of the ditch or Ricky there will shoot your friend," the guard ordered, causing both brothers to look to the young guard above them. Their hearts dropped when they saw that the kid's gun was trained unwaveringly on Sam, that a coldness had permeated the boyish features, leaving little hope that Ricky wouldn't pull the trigger if Sam presented a threat to the other guards.

'_Great. The kid's a true believer in this reform camp after all,_' Dean thought with a sigh. '_He might not like capital punishment but he still won't be cutting the electricity any time soon.' _ Defeat settled on Dean even as he felt fear pouring off of Sam, felt the desperation grip in which his brother held him. Dean tensed but didn't protest when Bill and Leon each took one of his arms again, only gave the guards one of his best cocky smiles.

"No. He can work," Sam growled heatedly, his eyes glaring over Dean's shoulder at the two men. "You can't get rid of him if he can still work!"

With Sam's boast, Bill's hand shot out, gripped Dean's jaw tightly, boring his eyes into Dean's pain dulled green gaze. "I think your friend is lying. What do you think, Leon?"

Leon stepped closer to Dean, "Maybe we should give him the test." Without warning, Leon punched Dean in the stomach, his fist unmercifully catching Dean's ribs.

Dean gave a sharp cry of pain as his knees buckled. He would have been kneeling in the dirt if not for Sam's persistent and constant embrace.

With his hands literally full with keeping Dean from crumbling to the ground, Sam couldn't vent his fury beyond a deadly threat, "You hurt him again and I'll kill you!"

"Oh, I'm gonna do more than hurt him," Leon gloated, a sick smile on his face. Pulling his gun, he didn't sight it on Dean but instead pressed it against Sam's shoulder. "Bill, I think you'll have to carry the patient to the infirmary."

Sam could feel the trembling in the body that he held, the heat pouring from Dean that had nothing to do with the sun. With pride and love, he also sensed the fight in Dean, to raise his head, to get his legs again locked, to win the battle. But when Dean spoke, his voice weak, hoarse with pain, Sam knew he had misjudged the victory Dean was fighting for.

"Sam, let me go."

"What?!" Sam exclaimed, doubting his interpretation of his brother's Latin because Dean couldn't mean that. He just couldn't!

With seemingly the last of his strength, Dean raised his head, let it fall back against Sam's chest, but had to keep his eyes clamped shut in response to the tilting world. "Let me go. You don't have to die too."

For a moment, Sam's breath vanished as if it never was. "No," he growled petulantly, pulling Dean more upright until his chin touched Dean's shoulder, uncaring that Leon's gun muzzle pressed painfully into his own exposed shoulder. "No! We're in this together Dean!"

Opening his eyes, Dean looked to the two guards, saw their eager willingness to take two men to the "infirmary" as soon as one. And Dean couldn't have that, couldn't be the death of Sammy. Bringing his weak trembling hands up to cover Sam's, Dean let them rest there a moment, left himself treasure that connection with Sam one last time. And then he began to pry Sam's fingers loose from his shirt, from him. "You have to let me go," Dean gently stated, wishing that he could save himself for Sam's sake more than for his own.

"No," Sam protested, his voice breaking on the one word, his hands fighting to keep their hold on Dean. "No, Dean!" he shouted a moment later, shaking Dean, needing him to see reason, to fight!

"I've had enough of this drama," Bill announced a moment before Sam felt pain explode from his left arm as the guard sliced a knife blade across his forearm.

At the startled agony, Sam's arm betrayed him. When his arm's strength fled, loosening its grip on his brother, it gave Bill the opening to pull Dean out of his grip and onto his shoulder. Sam, taking a step forward to reclaim Dean, found Leon blocking his way, gun now slid over to press dead center into his chest. "Dean!" Sam called as Dean groaned as he was unceremoniously dumped onto the level ground above them. Shoving Leon aside, unmindful of the man's gun, Sam startled as a gunshot rang out and a bullet ricocheted off the ground less than an inch in front of his right foot, Ricky's bullet.

"I don't want to hurt you, mister but I will if I have to. I'll kill you if I have to," Ricky warned, tightening his grip on the gun he had sighted on Sam's chest.

"This isn't right! Are you just going to stand there and watch them kill my brother!?" Sam implored, hoping to reignite the young guard's morality, to gain an ally.

The uncertainty returned to the boy's eyes, the gun wavered slightly. "He..he can't work. Dylan says…"

"I don't care what Dylan says!! This is murder! Are you a murderer Ricky?! Is that what you are? Want to be?!" Sam exploded, stepping forward as Leon and Bill pulled got of of the ditch, watched as they roughly grabbed Dean, dragged him upright between them. Sam winced openly at Dean's groan of pain when he was slung over Bills' shoulder again, the position forcing his ribs and wounded side to take the brunt of the pressure of his body weight, to steal Dean's breath as surely as it was stealing his brother's strength.

Sam tore his eyes from Dean's nearly limp figure back to Ricky, to his only hope. But there was a sadness, a resignation in Ricky's eyes and to Sam's surprise, it reminded him of the look he caught sometimes in Dean's eyes.

"I already crossed that line…and there's no going back. I'm sorry…'bout your brother but Bill's right. If he can't work, we can't keep him around," Ricky said, regret, sympathy in his eyes but it was no longer reflected in his grip on the gun.

"Ah, let's let him tag along," Leon drawled viciously. "This is always more fun with spectators," waving his gun to indicate Sam should come out of the hole.

Not needing to be asked twice, Sam practically bound out of the ditch onto his feet. He tracked the sight of his brother's back and bent head over Bill's shoulder as the guard moved forward. The guard was making pretty good speed even with Dean's all muscle form draped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Without sparing a look to Leon and Ricky, Sam started forward, intent on gaining his brother's side. A gun pressed into his side and a brutal hand wrapped around his arm slowed him down, made him send a dangerous glare to Leon, promising something he was only too eager to pay.

"Easy, there Jolly Green," Leon said with a smile, "you won't miss a thing, I promise."

There was no up or down with Dean, only agony, breath that would hardly come and the bitter thought that he was leaving Sam, wasn't going to be there to protect his brother from worse things than a work camp detail. '_Dad, you should have let me go, should have stayed with Sam yourself. You could always protect him better than I could…when you tried.'_

Now that his time was nearing its end, Dean was surprised to find his anger at his father resurfacing. Found a spring of bitterness well in him at the time he had lost with Sam while his brother had attended college. Time that he couldn't get back, time that had left him hurting and alone, even in the presence of his father. Because, though he and his father had stayed together, Dean knew that they hadn't been that close, had, instead, been distant with each other more times than not in Sam's absence. Regret also flared in him, regret that he had allowed his father's uncompromising reaction to Sam's decision to go away to college very nearly sever the connection between all three Winchester men, had, at the very least, created a fault line in the bedrock of the small family that was. A fault line that Dean worried had the potential to widen into a chasm that neither brother could cross, not without John Winchester's ironclad willpower to bridge them together.

'_Dad, you stubborn fool. It should be you here with Sam, fixing what you broke. Hopefully not here, __**here**__, like getting hauled off like a bag of dogchow to the great dog pound in the sky but here with Sam, you know, the son you freakin' loved and never told him. The son that you had go fetch you coffee while you spilled your guts to me and died for me. Crap, if I'm about to see you Dad, I'm not sure if I want to hug you or hit you.'_

It barely registered with Dean when Bill stopped. He listened to Leon's words with detachment.

"See we screwed up at first because, well, we're soldiers not construction workers and we dug the hole for the septic tank here. But Dylan decided we could still put it to use. Use it as an ….infirmary ….for those who weren't pulling their weight. How many guys we put down there and bury, Ricky? Seven…eight?"

"Nine," came Ricky's quiet correction.

'_Soon to be ten_,' Dean thought dismally, wishing he had the strength to protest, the breath to snarl out a threat even in Latin. Sam's outraged, lethal voice cut across his nerves like a live wire. Crap, he didn't want Sam there, a witness to his death.

"You sick sons of .." the barrel of Leon's gun halted Sam's words as it impacted with his jaw, sent the taller Winchester to the ground.

Finding the strength to raise his head slightly off of Bill's back, Dean saw Sam was on the ground and their eyes connected. '_Sorry Sammy_,' Dean tried to convey, hoped that his brother knew how much he meant to him and then, without warning, Bill bend forward, and tossed him off his shoulder. Bracing for the impact, Dean felt surprised when it didn't come right away. It felt like an eternity even if it were mere seconds until his fall was broken, seemingly breaking his back with it. "Agghhh!" his last air whooshed from him as he hit the bottom of the discarded septic tank hole.

Before Dean could breathe or move or determine that the agony shooting down his legs meant that his back wasn't broken, the sound of an engine starting overlapped his brother's scream of "NO! Don't do this!" Then he heard a tone he rarely heard from Sam, a tone of such desperation, of pleading that it hurt Dean to hear, hurt him worse to know that his brother was pleading for him, for his life, was making himself beg these soulless men. "I'll do anything you want! Just don't do this!" Before Dean could put everything together, dirt was falling from the sky, blocking out the sunlight. When the soil struck his face, head and chest like a merciless wave from a tsunami, unconsciousness sucked Dean under its current.

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TBC

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If you have a good word to say, I'ld love to hear it. I will gladly take any and all encouragement you deem to throw my way! It's those reviews, those emails, that had me coming back to my laptop, to this story, making me think, just maybe someone would mind if I abandoned ship.

Truly, I'm not one to give up on a story I'm posting and those aren't my intentions this time around either. I just hope you'll forgive me for not replying to reviews, for having to put all my limited energies into penning this story, for getting our heroes out of sewers and camps and the realm of conversations in Latin.

Thank you for reading and for those wonderful souls who reviewed last chapter and for those who bless me with a review this go around. You've given something precious to me and I really don't take that for granted. Thank you!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	9. Undead and Buried

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: I can't express how much I appreciated all of the support I got for this story last chapter!!! After the long hiatus I took between Chapter 7 and Chapter 8, it was wonderful to know that you guys didn't give up on the story or me! As a form of thank you for your awesome friendship and encouragement, I'm updating sooner than the standard 2 weeks that I've done with this story. Hope the story continues to hold your interest.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 9: Undead and Buried

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Though it was Leon's gun that sent Sam sprawling to the ground, it was what Sam read in the green eyes that had searched and found his own that kept the younger Winchester there: frozen, stunned, terrified. He knew those eyes better than his own, read them like others read books. Could read the revealed regrets, offered apology, confessed affection…love, even as they bade him goodbye. All of it conveyed with one solitary look, leaving Sam weak, breathless, warmed and wretched alike.

And then Dean was ripped away from him, tossed off Bill's shoulders like he were a ragdoll. Before Sam could react, could utter a cry of protest, Leon's knee fell heavily against his sternum and the guard's gun barrel pressed into his right cheek. It left him no choice but to helplessly watch his brother's uncharacteristically limp body fall into the rectangular opening in the ground and out of his sight. An instant later, he was reassured and sickened by Dean's grunt of pain coinciding with the sound of his brother's body hitting packed, unforgiving earth.

Pinned as he was by Leon's knee as much as by his gun, Sam could not move, could not go to his brother, knew he had to draw on his inner strength now, tap into that Winchester cunningness that lay somewhere in him. He ordered himself to not panic, to keep his crap together, telling himself that he could get Dean out of this if he kept his head. But when he rolled his head to the left and saw the backhoe, watched as Bill climbed behind the controls of the machine, thoughts of cunningness and composure and optimism fled. In their place only fear lived.

"No! Don't do this!" Sam screamed as the backhoe's engine came to life. Unmindful of the gun digging into his cheek, Sam had raised his head, had directed his plea, his threat to Bill, to the man who was intending to bury his brother alive.

For all the fearful things Sam had seen in his life, Bill's smile chilled him like nothing else ever had. The man was going to send the soil piled in the backhoe's bucket raining down on his brother, was going to bury Dean, _alive_, was going to freakin' murder his brother, all without remorse. '_God, don't let this happen_!!' ripped through Sam's soul. Yelling above the sound of the backhoe, he offered up everything he had, _was_, pleaded, begged, bartered. "I'll do anything you want! Just don't do this!"

But there was no remorse in Bill's eyes, no hesitation as there had been in Max Miller's gaze. Instead a smile graced the guard's lips as he tilted the bucket forward. Without mercy, Bill sent the dirt cascading into the hole.

Sam knew without looking that the man's aim had been true, knew in his gut where that crushing weight of earth had landed. "No!" the scream tearing from him as if a knife had been plunged into his gut, its sharp edges shredding him from the inside out. Abandoning any hope of finding mercy with Bill, Sam swiveled his head to meet Leon's amused eyes. "You want money, I can get it! Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it!" he shamelessly bargained for his brother's life, not knowing of a _thing_ he wouldn't do to stop the nightmare, to make it go away, to save Dean.

His bribe was met by Leon's laughter and the sounds of the backhoe, moving, scooping more dirt into its bucket, drawing Sam's panicked gaze again to Bill. "I'll kill you!" Sam snarled, the hard look in his eyes untainted by mercy or constrained by morals. "You do this, you kill him, and you're dead, I swear it," Sam vowed, his tone low but its lethalness was detectable even amid the rumbling backhoe's engine.

For the first time in his life, Sam knew what it felt like to be willing to commit murder, understood the _desire_, the _need_ to take a life, a wholly human life. '_To go darkside_,' Sam categorized his intentions. Instead of guilt or shame at the revelation, despair dug deeper into his soul at the prospect of losing Dean, of losing the only thing, the only _one_ that could keep him toeing the line, that could make him _care_ about the fate of his own soul.

"Dean?!" Sam called out for his brother, like he had when he had woken up trapped in the front seat of the wrecked Impala, his brother behind him, out of his sight, out of his reach. "Dean?!" his voice rising, fear and panic unmasked at the absence of Dean's voice, the voice that always reassured him that everything was going to be OK, the voice that had been there his whole life, could always quiet the fears in the boy that he had been and the man he had grown up to be.

Into the void, he called again, "Dean?" his voice now hesitant, shaken, was a child's voice not a soldier's voice, was not John Winchester's son's voice, instead was the voice of Dean Winchester's little brother. With every fiber in him, Sam ached to hear Dean's voice, to know that there was still a reason to toe that line, to hope, to live.

But there was no answering reply, was only Leon's chuckle and Bill's smirk and Ricky's shuffling feet somewhere unseen. Suddenly a coldness seeped over Sam, leaving him ready to provoke Leon into taking his shot, forcing the guard to try his best to stop the inevitable: Namely his neck being snapped by Sam, his nerveless fingers giving up the gun to Sam's well practiced hold, the bullet from his gun finding a home nestled in Bill's heart. Then, with the last of his strength, of his willpower, Sam knew where he would go, where he would end up, would find rest: In that hole with his brother, either in time to save Dean or die with him.

Leon was a soldier, had taken lives up close and personal, knew the feel of a gun in his hand, a _life_ in his hands. So it was disconcerting to see his present confidence mirrored in the tall dark haired man's eyes, the man whose life he thought _he_ held. It sent a chill down his spine to see the deadly gleam in the pinned man's eyes, as if he held all the cards, that it was his hand gripping the handle of the gun, that it was Leon's fate in jeopardy instead of his own, that _his_ mercy alone stood between Leon taking another breath and none at all. Mercy that Leon noted was starkly absent in the deadly eyes that seared into him. Fear trickled through the ex-soldier, making his palms sweaty, causing his heart rate to pick up speed, his adrenaline to surge through him.

"What are you three doing?!" a voice snarled from behind, making Leon jump, sent his head spinning around to land on his commanding officer, Dylan. Warily Leon watched the dirty blond haired man in his earlier fifties, step forward, his tall and lean muscled frame emanating lethal grace. Absently realizing that Chase had arrived with Dylan, Leon shifted his look nervously to Bill, who had turned off the backhoe, face pinched with worry of his own.

"We…ah….were…" Leon stammered, nearly forgetting about the man he had pinned under his knee as Dylan stalked forward to the edge of the septic pit.

"Who's down there?" Dylan demanded, eyes fixed on the new mound of dirt at the bottom left of the hole before strafing into Leon and Bill like live rounds.

"New guy," Bill supplied, striving to put confidence in his tone as he swung down from the seat of the backhoe to land beside Dylan. He nearly fell into the hole when Chase's shoulder collided with his back as the second in command hastily gained his side, his eyes cast down into the hole, drawn to the new mound of dirt.

With a growled curse, Chase leaped down into the septic hole, began pawing at the dirt, unknowingly starting at Dean's feet.

"Leon, let the other one up," Dylan called over his shoulder, watching Chase's actions with detachment.

Once freed of Leon's knee and gun muzzle, Sam scrambled to the opening in the ground, dropped down into the hole and promptly fell to his knees beside the mound that Chase was working to uncover. "Dean!" Sam frantically called, trembling, frenzied hands shoving dirt away, until finally he unearthed a portion of cloth that was Dean's much abused shirt. Knowing that time was against him, that his brother's capacity to hold his breath only lasted so long, Sam latched desperately onto the only part of Dean he had, the fabric of his shirt. With an anguished growl, Sam pulled on the cotton shirt, used it to yank Dean from under the heavy soil. Dean's boneless form broke free of the mound of dirt, soil caking his hair, his face, his entire body, Sam's grip on the shoulder of his shirt the only thing keeping him upright.

Instantly, Sam slipped his arm around his brother's back to support him even as he scooted forward so he could cradle his brother's head on his lap. "Dean!" Sam beckoned, gentle, anxious hands wiping away the dirt at Dean's mouth and nose. "Come on, man! Wake up!" Sam commanded, unwilling, unable to acknowledge that Dean was doing that not breathing thing again, that he was trying to leave him alone for seemingly the thousandth time in two days. That thought spiked anger into Sam, where it mixed toxically with his fear.

"Focus, Dean! We have a job to do so suck it up!" Sam ordered, voice hard, unrelenting before he landed a resounding slap to Dean's right cheek. Somewhere it registered with Sam that his action had surprised Chase, who still knelt on the other side of Dean. Then a gasping cough erupted from Dean and that was all that mattered in the world to Sam.

Rolling Dean onto his side so that he could breathe easier, dispel the dirt that was still threatening to choke him, Sam patted Dean's back while more forceful gasping coughs wracked his brother's body. With his other arm braced against Dean's chest to ensure that his brother wouldn't roll forward too far, wouldn't land face first into the ground, Sam sat there with his brother's head resting on his knees and felt the prick of tears in his eyes.

Choking on the dirt that had insinuated its way into his mouth, down his throat, into his lungs, Dean grasped for breath, fought to blink away the flashes of light that were going off in his head like a late Fourth of July. Confused, disoriented, hurting, _crap, hurting badly_, he couldn't put two and two together right then and make four, could only register that he was conscious, awake, alive and that someone was touching him, holding him. '_Sam.' _And that was good enough for Dean, made him feel safe, saved. '_Sam is here, he hasn't left me,' _he realized before he willingly surrendered to the peace that the void promised.

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Dean knew he was dreaming, that the edges of his vision were too white, the scenes too disjointed, too surreal but it felt _familiar_, like deja vu. The corridor, the white walls, the soundlessness of his footfalls, people passing him without acknowledging his presence, _sensing_ his presence, it sent helplessness resonating through him, made him feel utterly lost, alone. Then he heard it, Sam's voice, offering him a port in the storm, a haven, a road map home. Trembling but relieved, Dean followed that beloved voice, found himself walking down a corridor then suddenly he was standing inside a room, Sam's lanky figure sitting Indian style on the floor at his feet.

"What the heck? Sam?" he called, his voice rougher than he thought it would be, more vulnerable. But Sam didn't react to his words, to his tone, to him, at all. Dean was ready to demand Sam answer him when he saw it, the mystical talking hands board lying on the floor in front of Sam, his brother's hands resting on the black rectangle board piece.

Dean's breath hitched in his chest when Sam's soft, exposed voice asked, "You're hunting? Is what you're hunting in the hospital?"

"Crap," Dean exclaimed, breath whooshing from him, surprised to find himself weak in the knees as the revelation came to him. Stumbling he came up against the foot of a bed, a bed he hadn't seen before. A curse escaped him as he fully accepted where he was, when he was, who he could expect to be in the bed behind him. Spinning around, he exhaled deeply at finding the bed empty, relieved to not come face to face with another one of himself. "One Dean Winchester's more than the world can handle," Dean sighed, shook his head before he turned around again.

Sam was still there, sitting on the floor, alone, seemingly talking to himself, unaware of Dean's standing presence. "What are you hunting, Dean?" Sam asked with more strength, a demand in his voice for answers.

Suddenly Dean found himself sitting Indian style across from Sam, his fingers on the rectangle piece along with Sam's, his hands guiding the piece, spelling out…Crap, he didn't know what he was spelling. He read the letters along with Sam, guessed the word he was spelling at the same time Sam did. Reaper.

A chill raced up Dean's spine, as his eyes flew to Sam's, saw the fear there in his brother's open features, heard it in the soft, breathless words Sam spoke next. "Is it after you, Dean?" Dean knew the answer, didn't have to watch where his fingers moved the indicator but he did anyway, a new worry spiking through him. What if this wasn't just memories, that instead it was a vision, a premonition of things to come, of a fate that he wasn't going to escape this time around.

When the indicator piece settled over "yes," a growl of "No!" tore from Dean and he yanked his fingers from the dial. His lost connection to the board, to Sam, triggered a slide show of images that bombarded him: a pretty petite brunette girl reaching for him, her small hand touching his cheek, her touch cold, arctic, like he had only felt once before; then he was standing beside his father's hospital bed an enraged Sam pointing a finger at their bed bound father just before he swiped a water glass from the table, sending it to the floor to shatter; then the pretty brunette girl was back, telling him that he was about to become what he hunted as she reached for him again. But he shied way from her artic touch, stumbled backwards in horror as she morphed into the old man Reaper that Mrs. LeGrange had controlled.

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Sitting at Dean's side, Sam wasn't prepared to hear the whimper escape his brother's vocal chords. Wasn't prepared on so many levels because this was _Dean_, his tough, seemingly invincible brother, the bravest person Sam knew, the guy who would take on the world to save Sam, to save some stranger.

Dropping the wet towel that he had been using to clean the dirt off his brother's face, Sam gently cupped Dean's pale still dirt streaked face with his left hand. When his touch didn't initiate a reaction in Dean, Sam leaned over his brother's prone body and called gently, "Dean? Dean, can you hear me?" Encouraged by the movement under Dean's eyelids, the catch in his brother's breathing, Sam prodded, "Come on, you're not gonna let me alone with these commando wackos, are you? Leave me unprotected, not have my back. That's not your style Dean. So suck it up and open your eyes." A wince fleetingly contorted Dean's face making Sam's breath catch. "I know you're in pain…" Sam's voice shook in sympathy, in guilt, "but I need you to wake up, alright."

When Dean's lips moved, Sam leaned down, his ear almost touching his brother's lips as they utter the one word. "Reaper." Ice replaced blood in Sam's veins, "No, no, no," he stammered, pulling back far enough to see his brother's full face, his right hand coming to rest on Dean's chest, unconsciously over his brother's heart. "You're dreaming Dean," but his voice cracked with his next words, "Please, God, let him be dreaming." Then with an authoritative tone that his father would have been proud of, Sam growled, "Wake up, Dean. Now!"

The soldier in Dean responded, stole him away right under the Reaper's reaching grasp, dropped him into a world of pain and light and Sam. Blinking to clear his vision, he croaked out, "Sam?" ashamed that he sounded five, like he was once again waking up asking for his mom who wasn't coming back, ever. After having nearly suffocated, the beaming smile that Sam directed at him was a resuscitating gale of air, saving him, giving him an anchor in the conscious world.

In relief that made him weak, Sam dropped his head forward, his smile still shining on his face, his hair brushing against Dean's forehead, letting his hand slide from Dean's cheek and settle onto his own leg. "Crap man," he exhaled, tiredly, happily, "we are so taking a vacation after this. And you," raising his head he poked his finger into his brother's chest where his hand had rested a moment prior, "You're gonna do nothing more dangerous than ogle women from a barstool, unmarried, unattached women, Dean. There will be no fighting, hustling, hunting. Just you being the best patient the world has ever seen."

"Forget that," Dean wheezed out in Latin. "After all this, I deserve to bust some heads…not get neutered," he countered, pulling on a cocky smile.

Laughing outright, Sam fought the urge to wrap his big brother in a bear hug, uncertain what was stopping him more, the fact that he might hurt Dean or that Dean might hurt _him_ for getting all chick flicky on him. "It's good even just to hear your voice," Sam confessed, his eyes fixed on Dean with more affection than a hug could ever convey.

Sam's words echoed in Dean's head, sounded familiar.

Seeing Dean's forehead wrinkle, Sam worriedly asked, "What? What's wrong?" feeling stupid almost instantly because, really what _wasn't_ wrong.

Dean closed his eyes as he remembered, placed where he had heard those same sentiments from his brother. Swallowing, he quietly said, "You…you said it was good to hear from me."

"Yeah…" Sam trailed off, not liking the way Dean sounded disoriented. Fear started to settle in Sam's chest again. "Dean.."

"We …we were using the mystical talking hands…" Dean stammered. The scene of Sam sitting on the floor across from him, the board between them, their hands on the rectangle indicator, flared across the retinas of his closed eyes.

Sam stilled, his breath caught. "You…you remember that now?" his voice gentle, quiet as he watched Dean nod slightly, his brother's green eyes locked away from his sight. Sam felt a heaviness, a dread settle over him. "You remember the reaper too, don't you?" Knew his emotions were reflected in his voice when Dean's eyes flew up to meet his gaze.

"Both of them," Dean confessed, seeing Sam's adam's apple bob in reaction to his words. "The second one…this girl… she…she said I…I was going to …" But in the end, Dean chose deflection, denial, could not willingly increase the heavy load Sam already carried. "Well, doesn't matter,"

Sam's words were breathless, his eyes intent on Dean. "She said you were going to what, Dean?"

"Nothing, Sammy. Just dreaming. So where…" Dean redirected, determined to focus on the here and now. Rolling his head away from Sam, he took in their surroundings, found the barracks a little blacker, sootier and a bit more water logged than the last time he had been inside the structure. "Ah..home sweet home."

Adopting his gentlest, little brother tone, Sam entreated, "Dean, tell me what you remember. Please."

Shifting his look to Sam, Dean felt his chest tighten and it had nothing to do with abused lungs or ribs. No, the restriction had much more to do with his Achilles' heel; namely Sam, denying Sam something he wanted, ignoring his little brother's lost, worried, beseeching eyes. '_Crap, I should go to a hypnotist, get the Sammy whammy deprogrammed out of me,' _he griped, knowing at the same time that he wouldn't trade his connection with Sam for anything in the world. In defeat, Dean let out an exhausted breath. "It was probably just a dream."

"Tell me anyway," Sam pressed but there was no steel in his words, in his eyes, only wariness. He was determined to not push Dean too hard, to hurt him with demands that maybe shouldn't be met, not now, not so soon. Demands that Dean might meet regardless of the pain it would cause him, all because he loved his little brother more than he sought to protect himself.

Swallowing, preparing to reply, Dean discovered that his throat felt like it was coated in cement, found himself coughing instead of speaking when he exhaled. As the coughs consumed him, pain and pressure exploded in his chest, seemingly crushing his lungs, threatening to do an awesome trick of having his ribs make an appearance on the outside of his skin.

Reacting instantly to his brother's distress, Sam slid his arm behind Dean's shoulder and pulled him slightly upright. Bringing a bottle of water to Dean's lips, Sam tilted some of the liquid into his brother's mouth.

When the water first sloshed into his throat, Dean sputtered, choking on the water and the dirt. It was Sam's second offering of water that managed to slide down his throat, did the good that Sam had intended it to. Dean felt some of the sludge dislodge from his throat, felt better able to draw in a breath and he hungrily swallowed the next douse of water Sam tipped into his mouth. "Thanks," he finally managed, tilting his head to look at Sam, seeing the fear in his little brother as easily as he could feel it. "Nurse Sammy," he tacked on, though talking hurt now after the coughing fit. But he found the effort, the pain was worth it when a small smile turned up his brother's lips, when the look in Sam's eyes lightened.

"Ungrateful jerk," Sam replied but there was no disguising the affection in his tone as he settled Dean back onto the smoky smelling mattress. He tracked his brother's eyes as they again searched their surroundings. He spoke before Dean could. "I'll tell you what you missed if you answer my question," finding that after the day's events he wasn't above using emotional blackmail when it came to storming his brother's barriers. After all, Dean owed him after the emotional trauma he had put him through.

"Ok? What question?" Dean returned, pretending innocence, his glossy eyes on Sam.

"You know which one. What did she say to you Dean? The reaper?" Sam asked, his voice quiet, striving to be calm, his eyes never waiving from his brother's.

"What does it matter now. Dad saved me," Dean countered a hard edge to his words, feeling again the weight of his father's sacrifice settle upon him.

"It matters because you didn't remember her before and now you do. It matters because I'm your brother and I'm allowed to be a little freaked out that a reaper was out to claim you. Two reapers," Sam corrected, warming up to his topic, to the leverage he now felt he had.

"Claim me?!" Dean scoffed, "Take me _maybe_ but…

"Dean, just tell me," Sam tiredly cut in, his expressive eyes unveiled for Dean.

It was there in Sam's eyes, easier for Dean to read than an issue of World Weekly News: the toll that the day had wrought on Sam, the edge his brother was teetering on, an edge Dean knew he had pushed Sam to, though through little fault of his own. Sighing, Dean surrendered his stronghold, cast off his lately ineffectual façade of big brother invincibility. '_Cause let's face it, no one's buying what you're selling here, least of all Sammy_.' "She said I was going to become what I hunted," and he tried to make the words seeming inconsequential, that they hadn't pierced him right to his core, that he hadn't felt dread wrap around him. Sam going darkside he discounted out of hand because he _knew _Sam, knew the goodness that was his brother. But the notion of himself going darkside? That wasn't something he could shrug off, could deny out of hand, not when that question had lurked in him since his first kill, had become a howling wind as the notches on his soul multiplied, pierced farther, drew more blood.

At Dean's words, Sam stiffened, choked out a "What?" shock and fear vying for supremacy.

Dean pulled on a smirk, not knowing that, on his pale, bruised, dirty face, the expression only made him look even more exposed. "Yeah, I don't know either," he said with a small shake of his head, like it was a mystery that merely amused him. "That's just what I remember and then she was reaching for me…and then it was him."

Catching the shift of Dean's emotions when he spoke that last word, Sam asked with a tilt of his head, "Him?"

"Him, the other reaper, the old wrinkled guy," Dean clarified glossily but Sam's eyes were wide. When Sam shifted beside him on the mattress, Dean intervened before Sam could gather the courage to ask his next question. "But you woke me up before he could touch me this time," he reassured, dropping his gaze away from Sam's eyes, feeling foolish for treating a dream like a threat, for letting Sam fret over his big bad brother's 'wittle' nightmare. But Sam nodded his head in understanding as if the threat the reaper had posed in the nightmare was real, was something he was relieved Dean had escaped from unscathed.

Finding his throat blocked, Sam had to swallow twice before he could speak and then his voice came out low, hoarse. "Bilocation." The one word brought Dean's eyes sharply to his, had Dean raising his eyebrows. "It means an out of body experience," Sam explained.

"Yeah, Sam, I know that," Dean snapped back with a spring of indignation. '_I taught him half the stuff he knows, then he goes to college and now he thinks __he's__ the teacher!_'

"I mean that's why she…the reaper said you were going to become what you hunted. If you didn't…I don't know, return to your body and you…" Sam broke off, dropped his eyes from Dean's, tilted his face away from his brother, afraid that Dean would easily read the emotions that were rushing to the surface with the memories.

Though Sam had reacted quickly, it had not been fast enough for Dean to miss the desolation in his brother's eyes. "Died?" Dean supplied, voice rough, touched and sorry that the memories still hurt his brother. His one word garnered a nod from Sam but not his little brother's eye contact. Dean was left with the view of the top of Sam's bowed head. "So you and I we…you really could '_sense_' me, sense my…spirit walking around while my body …" The rest of Dean's words caught in his throat when Sam's head snapped up, when he saw the plea in his brother's eyes to not say it, to not force him to relive the nightmare again. A beat of silence fell as the brothers' eyes held, as their emotions filled the void. Then Dean tilted his head, pulled on a teasing smile and quirked, "Mystical talking hands, Sam?! That was soooo low budget!"

At his brother's ribbing, Sam laughed tiredly, shook his head, so glad that his brother was around to tease him about the male bonding session. "Sorry, but I couldn't find a gorgeous medium to do the séance."

"Come on Sammy, we both know you don't like sharing me," Dean quirked, a twinkle glimmering in his pain dulled eyes. But the comment didn't generate a smile from Sam. Instead, seriousness wiped away everything else in Sam's features.

"I wanted it to be me," Sam confessed, his voice low, eyes hidden again by his bangs, feeling seven again, jealousy that his big brother wanted to be with his friends instead of with him. "I wanted to connect with you. Me." Shaking his head in shame, he bitterly continued, eyes still down, "Not some stranger." A beat of silence fell before Sam exhaled, confessed the worst of it, "And not Dad."

Running a hand through his hair, steeling himself to meet the condemnation, the anger he expected to be visible in Dean's eyes, Sam raised his head. But there was only surprise in the green depths of his brother's eyes, surprise that was quickly overshadowed by affection. Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him at his brother's reaction, Sam pointed a playful finger at Dean and laughed warningly, "Now, don't go getting all teary eyed on me."

"I'm not," Dean groused, ignoring the fact that his voice was thicker than it should have been. "Being a girl's your thing, not mine," he growled out with some steely masculinity.

"Yeah, right," Sam laughed back.

Pulling on a look of long suffering, Dean turned matters back to the situation at hand. "So tell me what I missed. How did we end up back here? Last thing I remember I was getting buried alive."

Wincing at Dean's all too true description, Sam was about to make his reply when Dean's hand shot out and latched onto his left wrist.

"You're bleeding!" Dean exclaimed, seeing the dark stain on the sleeve of Sam's shirt. Turning his brother's arm, he saw the sliced fabric. He was reaching up to exam the wound when Sam's hand caught his, halting his intensions.

"It's just a nick, Dean. I'm alright. You're the one who's lying flat out on his back, looking like death not even warmed over," Sam countered, anticipating the reaction he would get.

"Thanks!" Dean snapped back sarcastically. "And would you stop holding my hand, Samantha," he grumbled, yanking his hand free of Sam's hold. "Now how come I'm not off tripping the light fantastic with a reaper babe?"

Sam's brow creased as he tried to translate his brother's Latin, unable to piece together how 'light' and 'reaper' and 'baby' would ever co-exists in a sentence Dean cooked up? "What?!" he asked in exasperation.

With a groan, Dean slowly spelled it out for Sam. "How come I'm not dead?"

Suddenly Sam wished he had simply translated Dean's first question because the second question cut like a sword, deep and lethal. '_Nice, Dean. Thanks for being sensitive to my feelings._' Exhaling, Sam rubbed his hands nervously on his knees. Though he could sum up what Dean wanted to know in two sentences, he was afraid that Dean would read between the lines. Would somehow _know _how close his little brother had come to losing it, would hear some catch in his voice and realize that his soul had begun unraveling all over the ground by that septic ditch. Worst still, Sam worried that Dean might see something flash in his eyes, something that would scare him, something that would sell Sam out, would show his big brother just how closely he had come to crossing that line that Dean thought his little brother would never, ever cross.

When Dean's brows creased and a worried look entered his eyes, Sam knew his prolonged silence was sending red flares up on Dean's big brother radar. '_Now or never_,' Sam chided himself but before he could speak the barrack door was swinging open. Sam's breath whooshed out of him in dread. Surging to his feet, he moved to stand between Dean and their visitors, because there was one thing he understood: the only one he could trust was lying on the floor behind him.

When Sam stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the persons entering the room, Dean felt irritation flare in him. '_Sam, I'm not an invalid_!' With a silent curse, he set out to prove his point, determined to push himself upright, to dispel the 'pathetically helpless' stigma he had, albeit rightfully, earned lately. And he down right refused to _allow_ Sam to endanger his life any longer to protect him. His body, however, proved another point: That it was in charge.

As his arms crumbled under him and pain speared through him from his ribs and side, Dean nearly passed out and he found himself crashing back onto the mattress. His weak struggle didn't even register with the other occupants of the room. Silently Dean cursed and turned his head, tried to see around his brother's too tall form from his prone position. He stilled as a voice he didn't recognize echoed against the barracks' tinny walls. Seeing the tense set to Sam's shoulders, Dean knew his brother recognized the man. But what unnerved Dean the most was Sam's body language, the fight to the death stance that Sam had adopted. '_Great. Must be the Big Kahuna. Glad I'm giving off a strong first impression.' _

Having glimpsed Dean before Sam's mother bear instincts had the twenty four year old growling on point, Dylan drawled, "So he's awake I see." Instead of attempting to approach the wounded man on the ground, Dylan stopped in front of Sam, held the boy's eyes, acknowledged that the young man posed a threat.

Sam didn't make a reply but his muscles were taut, ready for action as his eyes shifted from Dylan to Chase, who stood just beyond Dylan's right shoulder, and back again to the camp's commander in chief. Adrenaline pulsed in Sam's veins as he prepared to be the last line of defense for his brother, remembered the many times Dean had done this same thing, had drawn a line in the sand, conveyed with just one look that whatever wanted to hurt his little brother would have to go through him first, his cocky smile promising that death would be coming for all takers.

"He's your brother, right?" Dylan quietly asked, though he already knew the answer.

The man's knowledge of their bond, coupled with the cold brutality in Dylan's lips as they turned up for a smile made Sam's heart thud painfully in his chest. Being labeled as Dean's brother had always been a double edged sword, having the ability to bring danger or ridicule as surely as it brought pride or safety. Remembering the times that he had omitted Dean's existence from some of the conversations that he had had at college about family, about _his _family, Sam felt shame pour over him, was glad Dean wasn't able to see that dirty secret flicker in his eyes.

"Yes, he's my brother," Sam boldly declared, pride in his tone. Defiance snapped from his eyes, because as sure as he was breathing, Sam knew Dylan would wield his bond with Dean as a weapon against them, would treat their affection like a liability, a weakness, a failing. '_Yeah, and how many times have I used that bond against Dean? Tested it? Tried it? Certain that Dean would never let it break no matter what I did, or how I manipulated him, that he would never disown me…not like I had done to him_.'

Dylan drew closer to Sam, their matching heights allowing them to look directly into each other's eyes. "I have a brother too," Dylan said amicably. A small honest smile graced Dylan's features for a moment before it melted away, was replaced by a harsh line, accompanied by a dark set to his eyes. "I know what it's like to try and protect each other. And fail."

The threat, the insult seared across Sam like a machete. Reacting in fear and anger, forsaking his father's training, Sam threw an ill-advised right hook, because some things weren't about tactics and winning. Some things were about protecting what you cared most about.

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TBC

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See, that's not ready a cliffie, it's a baby hill. I promise next chapter will have more action. And please be warned, this tale isn't going to be wrapping up anytime soon. Apparently I'm writing and I can't shut up! We will get to the "big escape" but it is a few chapters away. ( I know , I know, get to it already! Sorry but I can't cheat myself of those brother moments that I love to pen, hope you enjoy them too.)

Again, I was so touched by all of your reviews! I loved every single one of them and wish I had the energy to reply to each of you. But I thank you all a thousand times over for giving me a reason to smile!

And thanks to those who wished me well in RL. It's still a storm out there but at least I learned that I'm not losing my job due to a merger, like a lot of my friends are. So on that note, it's kinda good news /bad news. I am honored by the friendship I have made on this site. Friends who have a wonderful way of making one of my bad days good! You are all so special to me!

Thanks so much for reading, and as always, I would gladly read, reread and frame any words of encouragement you send my way.

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	10. Incentives

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: This is the start of some shorter chapters but my hope is that then I can manage to update this story on a weekly basis. Also, if you're looking for Dean and Sam to catch a break, this isn't the chapter for you….ah…or the story for you. I'm having a fine time torturing the brothers, physically and emotionally which, of course, gives me an opening to write all those sappy brotherly moments. But don't worry, there will be no irreparable damage done, no death throes for those beautiful Winchester boys…cause when the story finally wrap up, I'm a sap for a happy ending.

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Chapter 10: Incentives

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Having willingly provoked the reaction in the younger man, Dylan, anticipating Sam's punch, easily dodged back out of the arc of Sam's strike, let the younger man's fist harmlessly pass his face. As Sam tried to compensate for his fist meeting air, tried to regain his balance, Dylan latched onto his right elbow, yanked him forward and slammed him against the wall of the barracks. Not underestimating the younger man's skills or desperation, Dylan twisted Sam's right arm behind his back as high as the muscles and tendons would allow, causing Sam to grunt of pain.

With Sam pinned, right cheek pressed into the wall, head turned in his brother's direction, Dylan crowded against Sam's back. "I'm guessing you're the little brother," Dylan gambled, his eyes dropping to Dean who was once again struggling to sit up, to come to his brother's defense. "See that's what's wrong with this whole scenario," Dylan drawled, as if he had made a happy revelation. Twisting Sam's arm higher up his back, eliciting a surprised cry of pain from the pinned man, Dylan leaned in closer to Sam's ear, his eyes, though, were locked on Dean. He enjoyed the lethal fury, the blazing fire in the green gaze as Dean barely found the strength to sit upright. "It isn't the _job _of little brothers to protect their big brothers. Doesn't work that way. It screws up the whole scheme of things. And besides, what kind of pathetic big brother needs his little brother to hold his hand, to protect him from the school yard bullies," Dylan stoked the rage in the two Winchesters, relishing the pain that flickered in Dean's eyes, the tension that poured off Sam's body as he kept the taller prisoner trapped helplessly against the wall.

At Dylan's taunt, Sam's eyes flew to Dean's and he could see it clearly: Dean _believed_ the soldier's words! Dean actually thought that he was failing him, that big brothers, that he wasn't _allowed_ to ever be weak, to be _human_. As a grimace of pain marred Dean's face, Sam watched as Dean managed to sit up, struggled to maneuvered his legs in the right position to lever himself to his feet, to come to his little brother's aid. '_Darn it Dean! Dylan's wrong! It is a __brother's__ place to protect one other._'

Taking a page from Dean's handbook, Sam looked over his shoulder to Dylan and hissed out, "So what's your excuse for not protecting your little brother?" drawing on the insight that had come to him, forging it into a weapon like Dean would. "You screwed up, right? And he tried to save _you_. But he got hurt doing it, didn't he? And that's on _you_. "

"Sam, no!" Dean yelled in panic. Because, out of all the people in the world, he knew the cost of this type of retaliation better than anyone, woke up some nights, heart pounding, trembling hand reaching for his chest, certain he was again getting eviscerated from the inside out by the thing wearing his father's face.

Sam didn't look to Dean, couldn't, not if he wanted to stay focused, stay coldhearted. Instead he watched the results of his verbal strike, saw the almost imperceptible change in Dylan's eyes, felt the soldier's fingers shift their grip on his arm. He had made a direct hit.

When Dylan spoke his voice was a low growling sound, his eyes piercing Sam's. "My brother is none of your business," punctuating his statement by landing a punch to Sam's kidneys.

Had Dylan not been pinning the taller Winchester brutally to the wall, Sam would have sank to the ground as his knees crumbled their stance under the assault of unexpected pain. Distracted by the haze of throbbing pain, it took Sam a moment to comprehend Dylan's next words, to realize that Dylan was stepping back from him, that Chase had replaced Dylan's bruising hold on him with his own.

"What you should stay focused on is trying to keep your own brother alive."

Looking over his shoulder at Dylan, Sam screamed "No!", struggling to get free of Chase's hold, to stop Dylan. The gunshot sounded like a bomb explosion in the enclosed area.

Having stilled as Dylan's gun sighted on his head, Dean had pulled on his deadly mask, the look in his eye daring, prodding Dylan to just do it and get it over with. To his credit, Dean didn't flinch when the bullet whizzed by his ear to embed itself in the barrack's wall behind him, though the heat of the bullet's close passing put a chill down his spine.

In relief Sam sagged against the wall, his eyes closing tightly only to instantly open them to lock onto Dean, to reassure himself again that Dean hadn't been shot, wasn't dead. "Just tell me what you want from us," Sam tiredly surrendered his words for Dylan but his eyes meeting his brother's. He easily read the frustration, anger and bitter agreement in the look Dean shot him. They were backed into a corner, helpless, beaten. If they wanted to survive, a truce had to be made.

"Want?" Dylan's false laugh was back online as he shook his head, "Who says I want anything? I mean, this, this has been the most fun I've had in awhile." Walking around to the other side of the mattress on the floor, his eyes meeting Sam's, Dylan crouched down beside Dean, kept his eyes on Sam a few heartbeats before he looked down to Dean. The soldier wasn't surprised to see the deadly glint in the wounded man's eyes when they lanced into him, promising him a long painful death. A look he had seen before, a look that he had generated before.

"But I have to say I'm curious about you two," Dylan said with a smile but it vanished the next second, was replaced by the implacable determined look of a commanding officer prepared to do what he had to do to gather the intel he wanted. "I think you're as deadly as they come and I've got to question the circumstances that got you into my little camp here. So I think it's time for us to have a little conversation. To find out who you really are…because you're not cultists," Dylan denied, a friendly smirk twisting up his lips as if he were enjoying the joke. "Or terrorists or…. archeologists. See, me, I have my own theory." Unexpectedly Dylan's hand fell heavily upon Dean's wounded side, his fingers digging in, further abusing the torn flesh.

Before Dean could lock down his agony, a choked grunt of pain escaped him and he tried to twist away from the torture. But Dylan unmercifully applied more pressure to his clawed side, sending Dean crashing back onto the mattress with a yell. Latching onto Dylan's wrist with his right hand, Dean tried in vain to dislodge the man's hand from his wound.

"Stop it!" Sam shouted struggling to be released, wanting to kick Dylan away from his brother. But his struggle was put down ridiculously easy when Chase's forearm pressed into the base of his neck, pressing his cheek harder into the wall and his arm was pulled higher until Sam expected to feel tendons rip in his arm. "We got arrested! The sheriff brought us here! Talk to the sheriff, ask _him _why he brought us here!"

When Dylan unexpectedly removed his hold on his side, Dean rolled to his right and wrapped his arm around his waist. Drawing his knees up and bowing his head, Dean practically curled into a ball attempting to stem the agony, to channel it, as his breath raggedly slipped out of him. He didn't even make protest or struggle when, a moment later, Dylan shoved his left arm away from his stomach and the solder pulled up his shirt.

Dylan's practiced eyes catalogued the younger man's injuries. Raising Dean's shirt further up, the soldier wasn't entirely surprised to see a scar from a bullet wound on the Dean's left shoulder. Dropping the t-shirt, Dylan shook his head and looked to Dean's face, saw the younger man was meeting his stare steadily though pain still hitched his breath, dulled his eyes. "Chase, I have to say our two guests here are quite the mystery," he admitted, looking up to his second in command. "Problem is, I don't particularly like mysteries, they always take too long to solve. I say we convince big brother here to give us the plot twist right out of the gate."

Sam felt some hope flare to life when Chase's forearm left his neck but it was soon replaced with fear and dread as he felt cold metal press his left hand to the wall. His blood ran cold when the sound of a gun being cocked echoed in the barracks.

At the all too familiar sound, Dean instantly rolled unto his back, his eyes flying to Sam. He was greeted with the sight of Sam's hand pinned to the wall with the muzzle of Chase's gun. "No!" he shouted in Latin, his back coming off the mattress only to have Dylan's hand wrap around his shoulder and yank him back down.

Leaning over Dean, Dylan drawled, "Yeah, you know, I heard about your little preference to not speak English. But me, I was born and bred in the great American MidWest and I'm pretty partial to English." The smile Dylan offered up was all wolf. "So this is how it's going to be: unless you start speaking English, right now, I'm going to let Chase put a bullet through your brother's hand."

The deadly gleam in Dylan's cold blue eyes gave Dean no doubt that the man played as hard and as dirty as he had to in order to win. Silently, Dean cursed the commando wanna bes for their fascination with threatening to send bullets into legs and hands, to maim, to dispirit. With gut wrenching fear, his eyes swung back to Sam's. Beyond Sam's brave façade, Dean could see his brother's panic and it made his own composure slip. Clamping his eyes shut, Dean coached himself, '_Crap!!! You can do this! Just think of the word you want to say, think of it in __**English**__, then say it, in English, __in English stupid!_' But fear and doubt clawed into him sharper than the wolf had, because, in _his_ mind, he had never _stopped_ speaking English.

Still crouched at Dean's side, Dylan gave a disappointed sigh. "Well, Chase, looks like these boys think I'm bluffing."

His eyes flying open to see Chase's finger on the trigger, to see Sam gritting his teeth, bracing himself for the pain, Dean roared, "No! Don't!" his eyes fixed on his brother's face, fearing that Sam's youthful features would soon be a mask of pain. But pain didn't darken Sam's eyes, mar his baby face features, but disappointment did and dread. '_No!,_' tore through Dean like an unuttered sob. He hadn't spoken in English, was still babbling away in Latin, was failing Sam, was going to be the reason Sam got a bullet through the hand…most likely through the head before the game ended. '_Dad was right! My Latin's gonna get someone killed! Gonna get Sam killed!_'

In desperation, Dean rolled his head away from Sam to meet Dylan's ruthless stare. Wrapping his hand around the commander's wrist, he begged, "Wait! Just wait!", hoping to God that the man heard the pleading tone in his strange words, saw in his eyes his complete willingness to beg for mercy for his brother.

Dylan gave a half smile, "I know English and that," he wagged his finger at Dean, "that isn't English." Then without lifting his eyes from Dean's gaze, he ordered, "Chase, shoot little brother's hand."

"Favent!" Dean screamed no, using his grip on Dylan's arm to shove the older man backwards, giving himself the room to surge up from the mattress, to make a grab for Chase's gun. His fingers were inches from the gun when an iron like grip wrapped around his ankle, dragging him backwards, away from the gun, away from Sam. Before he could kick to be free, Dean's right arm was grabbed and he was flipped over onto his back. He didn't even draw in another breath before Dylan's gun muzzle was pressed into his forehead. Breathing hard, Dean looked down the barrel of the gun to Dylan's face, grateful that he hadn't heard a gunshot sound in the room, that Sam was still in one piece.

Sliding his gun muzzle down to press under Dean's chin, Dylan tilted Dean's head back until Dean could see behind him, saw that Chase had changed the aim of his gun. It now rested on the back of Sam's head. Dean's eyes flew to Sam's and he tried his hardest to apologize, to let Sam know that he was sorry that he had been saddled with a loser of a big brother, that something as stupid as his inability to speak English was going to get him killed. Dean closed his eyes tightly when Sam spoke, his little brother's voice tender even as he faced the firing squad, "Dean, it's alright, man. I don't blame you for this."

"Crap, Chase, I think I'm getting a little misty eyed here," Dylan sneered, the brother's bond somehow igniting anger in him that wasn't there before. Pressing his gun harder under Dean's chin, making it hard for Dean to swallow, Dylan goaded, "You can save him, you know. Be the big brother he deserves." Easing the pressure of the gun on Dean, allowing the younger man to move his head forward again, Dylan met Dean's lethal green eyes, knew he had garnered the man's unchecked hatred, knew somewhere down deep that it wasn't something he should take lightly, dismiss.

Moving his gun barrel down Dean's throat, Dylan brought it to a stop against Dean's breastbone. "Just beg for your brother's life in English. That's it, that's all you need to do to save him. That's not so hard right? Won't hurt your ego too drastically? Unless your ego is more important than little brother here or maybe your pride's not something you sacrifice even to stop your brother's brains from being scattered on the wall. I mean, I know little brothers can be more trouble than they are worth but I'm getting the feeling that you like yours, would feel kind of badly if he took a bullet to the back of the head. So let's do this One. More. Time. Beg for his life," Dylan hissed, his warm breath sliding over Dean's face.

Dean held Dylan's gaze, returned the man's goading with a dark eyed glare that promised unholy retribution. But beneath Dean's boiling anger, terror ate through his heart like acid, and he felt like he was slowly being crushed under the weight of having Sam's life resting in his incapable hands. It was a weight he had always bore but it had never felt this heavy before. Protecting Sam, saving Sam, he had never truly despaired at failing that job before, until now.

'_You can do this! You can do this __**for Sam**__! Just a few words, that's all. You've been speaking English your whole life! Speak it now! For the love of God, __speak it now you loser_' Dean railed at himself, hands fisted, body radiating tension.

"Time's up," Dylan drawled.

"No! Don't kill him!" Dean yelled his voice hoarse and his eyes swimming with desperate tears as he looked to Dylan, _begged_ the man for mercy, to spare Sam's life. "Please. Don't," he choked out as he lay half on and half off a smoky mattress in an outlaw barracks in the middle of some forest, with his words alone sealing Sam's fate, saving his brother or condemning him. "I'm begging you, don't kill him," Dean pleaded, his pride and barriers gone in the face of losing Sam, of failing the only person on God's green earth that ever had true faith in him.

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TBC

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Ok, I freely admit I just couldn't help but make this a cliffie! Sam's gotta get his time in the spotlight too! After all, it's perilous work trying to save Dean's butt!

But I'm hoping to have the next chapter ready to go within a week. I, however, am not too proud to accept bribes via reviews to hurry things up. … After all, Sam and Dean aren't the only ones who need some incentives now and again.

Thanks to every single person who blessed me with a review last chapter! Each one had me smiling ear to ear and I've reread them all a few times over. You guys definitely treat me nicer than I deserve! (But I'm loving it!)

As for Anna's question about when/if we will hear about Dean's rat story: that will come out in some later chapter. And I've been working on writing a companion one shot for that, which I will post after Dean reveals it in this story…for anyone that might care.

Have a wonderful day!

Cheryl W.


	11. Scars that Run Deep

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: Sorry I didn't get to post this chapter as earlier as I thought. It had to be overhauled a time or two.

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Chapter 11: Scars that Run Deep

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For Dean, everything stopped, his heart, his breathing, the acknowledgement of his pain, of his _existence. _None of it mattered, _he_ didn't matter, only his words that echoed in the barracks mattered, only the forewarning he tried to perceive in Dylan's eyes held any meaning. What was at stake, _who_ was at stake was the only thing that held any value to him, was the only thing he had left, the one thing he couldn't bare to lose, especially because of his own failures.

Watching something shift in Dylan's blue eyes, Dean hitched in a breath and his heart rate jumped from zero to six hundred. Nearly flinching at the sound of Dylan uncocking his gun, Dean numbly felt the cold metal barrel leave his flesh. With dread and hope alike he saw Dylan nod to Chase. Frantically tilting his head back, Dean watched Chase's finger abandon the trigger, heard the click of the gun being uncocked, tracked the soldier's motions as he slid his gun back into its holster, stepped away from Sam, relinquished his hold over his brother. His eyes jumping to Sam, Dean saw that Sam hadn't moved, still remained leaning against the wall, his breath coming hard from him but his eyes were latched onto his big brother, were free of pain.

When Sam gave a nod of reassurance from his shaggy head of hair, Dean felt tears prick his eyes in relief. English, he had managed to speak in English. Closing his eyes, he tried to get his breathing to even out, his heart to stop threatening to thud right out of his chest.

His eyes meeting Sam's, Dylan ordered, "Alright, kiddo, take a seat beside big brother," dropping his malice as if it were a mask he had worn for the sake of some commando training scenario.

With knees more weak than he wanted to admit, Sam gratefully pushed off the wall and sank down to the floor beside Dean's head, earning him Dean's haunted green gaze. Sam fought the consuming urge to reach out to his brother, to wrap his hand around Dean's shoulder, to reassure Dean that he was Ok, heck, to reassure _himself_ that they were **both **OK.

With Chase standing guard, ready and willing to put down any assault the Winchesters would hazard, Dylan, remaining crouched down beside Dean, slapped Dean's knee, as if he were a coach encouraging one of his best players. As Dean's green gaze shifted from his brother to the older man, the emotions also swayed from one spectrum to another, from love to hate. "So, how about telling me the truth from here on out because I think you both know I'm not going to shy away from killing you," Dylan calmly suggested, eyes swinging from Dean to Sam and back again to Dean, his tone negating the physical violence of a moment before, denying that there had ever been something more sinister between them than civilized debates.

Meeting Dylan's gaze head on from his prone position, Dean tiredly asked, "What do you want to know?" too spent to feel relieved that his language was apparently staying its course, was still in English.

"I don't doubt that you two are brothers so I'm ruling out the possibility that you're undercover agents. You independents? Tracking down one of the missing inmates? Or were you sent to investigate the construction operation?" Dylan posed, giving the pretense that the answers to his questions would mean nothing to him, that he was as removed from this matter as an IRS agent was while performing an audit.

Sam fielded this question, heat and frustration in his tone as his eyes bore into Dylan's. "No, we're not working undercover. And we aren't investigators or whatever you think we are. We didn't _know _anything about your operation. Like I said, the sheriff arrested us and brought us here," Sam restated, an edge to his voice, defiance still sparking in his eyes even if it had dimmed considerably.

"Trust me, if we had SWAT standing by, you'd be sporting a hole in your head by now," Dean drawled gravelly, his eyes searing into Dylan.

At that boast, Dylan laughed, shook his head, "You know _that_ I believe." He looked appraisingly at Sam before he shifted his look to Dean. "What's your name?"

"Dean." At Dylan's raised eyebrows, prodding look, Dean revealed, "Dean Winchester." At his confession, Dean felt Sam's breath catch behind him, knew Sam disagreed with his tactical decision to use honesty. Knew with absolute certainty that, the first second he and Sam were alone, a fight would ensue between them over this choice. But Sam's disapproval didn't dissuade Dean from his course of action. He understood people like this Dylan guy, better than he wanted to.

"That better not be an alias," Dylan warned lowly, his eyes piercing Dean's like the best lie detector in the world.

"It's the real thing," Dean assured, his words a challenge, a dare.

Dylan nodded, surprised that a man lying flat out on his back, looking so pathetically pale and weak could manage such a level of cockiness, could almost bluff him into believing that he had a card yet to play, that the pot was still up for grabs. "Yeah, I think it is," he replied, letting none of his thoughts seep into his expression. "So what's your story? Your skills are too honed and you're sporting too many injuries and scars to just be some guys who managed to piss off a small town sheriff."

"Hey, I'll have you know we have pissed off every branch of law enforcement from all over the country," Dean quipped, pulling on a brazen grin like others pulled on brand name sweaters.

"Yeah, I bet you have," Dylan acknowledged, employing that smug laugh again. "So why is that?"

Dylan's inquiry was made lightly but Dean knew what was buried under the question, what consequences there were for not answering, for being caught in a lie. "Our dad was paramilitary, raised us on the road, taught us to handle ourselves," Dean supplied, thinking that if Special Agent Hendrickson thought that was true, this GI Joe could do the same. "And I say, what good is it to have the skills if you don't use 'em once and awhile," Dean cockily boasted, a full smile gracing his pale, dirt covered face.

"The gun shot wound, how'd you get that?" Dylan interrogated, pointing to Dean's left shoulder, intrigued by his newest slaves.

"Sammy here got a weird weed up his butt. Shot me 'cause I pissed him off," Dean answered, his gaze unflinchingly on Dylan, glad that he couldn't see Sam's expression at his words. "He just cultivates that puppy dog look, he's wwwaaayyyy more dangerous than he looks," Dean lowly imparted like a secret, a warning. He could just imagine the grimace that was on his brother's face at the joke that was too close to the bone.

Dylan laughed out loud. "I like you kid, I like your style," and he slapped Dean's knee again before he stood up. Looking down upon the brothers, Dylan's features hardened, his good buddy façade melting away. When he spoke next, his voice was hard, implacable, resigned. "But the problem is, I'm in the middle of this operation and I can't afford to let you two screw things up."

"Operation?" Dean snorted, looking up at the man towering over his weak body. "You're supervising cons building sewers," Dean scoffed, making Sam wish that his brother was still speaking a language Dylan didn't understand. "It's a far cry from organizing military assaults, huh? What? You get a dishonorable discharge? Man, how far the mighty have fallen."

A dark look overtook Dylan's eyes and a nerve jumped in his clenched jaw before he got himself under control, slipped on his congenial mask again. "Yeah, well I decided to turn in my medals for cold hard cash. This construction project is going to bring in millions of dollars and my cut…." He smiled then and it was the first honest one the Winchester's had seen, "it's really _really_ nice. Long live the capitalistic regime."

"You've killed men, buried them alive… _for money_?! Sam stammered in outrage, remembering how close Dean had come to that very fate. "Hijacking inmates, committing _murder_ just to build some stupid…."

When Sam faltered, Dylan good naturedly supplied, "Housing development for the obscenely rich? Well, let's just say the primary financial backer in this project was instrumental in getting the work crew together." With a mock whisper, Dylan added, "Contrary to popular rumor, he's not real interested in the rights of convicts," as if he were imparting a joke that should have had them snickering like Chase was. Sharing a conspiring look with his second in command, Dylan shook his head and faced Sam again. "As for killing for money?" a wolf's smile spread across the soldier's face. "That's what I've been trained to do. Some would dispute it's my best quality."

"Your mother must be so proud," Dean goaded, almost instantly finding Sam's hand clamped around his arm. With just that simple touch, that connection between them, Sam threateningly ordered Dean to cease and desist with his smart mouthed comebacks even as it telegraphed worry, begged for Dean's capitulation to his desires, his needs, his fears, just this one time.

Before Dylan could react to the insult, the barrack door opened, drawing the attention of the occupants of the room. Hesitantly, Ricky stepped into the living quarters and crossed to Dylan. Ricky's eyes scanned from Sam to Dean before falling back upon his commanding officer. "You wanted to be notified when Bill was ready to go for supplies. Permission to join him, sir?" Ricky ventured, a hopefulness in his eyes.

"No," Dylan answered with finality, his eyes fully focused on Ricky.

"Sir, I have…" Ricky campaigned but Dylan cut him off.  
"What you _have_ is other duties to perform. If those duties are too much for you, I can find you something more tedious to do," Dylan coldly offered, stepping closer, towering over the younger man.

"No sir, my current duties are fine," Ricky stiltedly replied before turning on his heels and leaving the barracks.

Shaking his head, Dylan gave a besieged look to Chase before he returned his focus to the Winchesters. "The younger generation, they think they have it so tough. But Chase and I, we know what it's like to be in the thick of combat, have your every breath be a gift." He gave Dean an assessing look, "I'm thinking you know how that feels, to think you're not going to survive, to be committed to taking out as many of your enemies as you can before you go."

"Funny, I've been thinking that all day," Dean drawled, a threat in his eyes even as his brother's hold on his arm tightened.

Chase spoke for the first time, his eyes dropping down to glare at Dean. "I liked you better when you were speaking in tongues."

"Right," Sam scoffed with a bitter laugh. "When was that?! When you were prepared to put a bullet in his leg or was it when you shoved him down in the hole for the night," Sam objected, his anger slipping its reins as he glared at the man who had made their lives a living hell.

Intent on stepping forward to confront Sam, Chase was blocked by Dylan as his commanding officer stepped in front of him, gave him a steely eyed glare. Then, with a jerk of his head, Dylan ordered Chase out of the barracks. With a parting glare to the Winchesters, Chase strode for the door.

Dylan stood there a moment in silence looking at the Winchesters on the ground at his feet wearing an expression neither brother could interpret. Then, without a word, without further threats or any hints about their continued life expectancy at the camp, Dylan started walking for the barracks' door. Halting in the doorframe, he snapped his fingers and spun around, his eyes on Dean. "I almost forgot. Loved your Latin but I really think you would have been better off using the latin word 'obtestor' to say that you were begging. It implies a deeper level of respect and need. Night, gentlemen," he drawled then, a smug smile on his face as he closed the door and slid the still fully functioning bolt in place.

"Son of a…" Dean groaned in frustration, knowing now that Dylan had understood his pleas for Sam's life all along, _all_ of his pleas!! Raising a hand to cover his eyes, Dean groused, "Everyone is a freakin' critic. I am never _ever_ speaking Latin again. _Ever_."

"Did you switch up the Latin for a truth spell or what?!" Sam accused, moving closer to his brother until he could look down directly into Dean's face Finding his brother's hand was sheltering Dean from his heated glare, Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist and levered his brother's hand away from his face.

His glare clashing with Sam's reprimanding look, Dean growled, "Guy could smell a lie a mile awhile, Sam. He's military, special ops, maybe did some deep cover operations." Then, sensing that something wasn't right, well, was more wrong, Dean dropped his hand down to finger his wounded side, felt the all too familiar warm texture of his blood. "Crap," he wearily sighed, his hand falling limply to the floor, his eyes sliding shut again. "If this is a dream, wake me up, ok? Let me buy Tiny Tim a turkey or an MP3 player or a Playstation already."

Sam wasn't sure what broke him more; the sight of his brother's blood or Dean's defeated tone. "Let me look," he ordered, with more heat than he intended, his hands already lifting his brother's shirt

"Oh, hey, easy!" Dean groaned as the fabric of the t-shirt slid across the tears in his skin like an abrasive and his brother's fingers pressed too hard on his ribs.

"You're bleeding again," Sam announced, his voice low, tight, his eyes on the blood seeping once more from his brother's untreated wound. When his focus moved up again to Dean's face, he was meant with one of this brother's infamous glares.

"Yeah, thanks. Your college education is really paying off," Dean muttered, fighting to not sound breathless, to not come off as some weak wussy, though he suspected that he was failing on both counts. With a combination of frustration and desperation, he shoved Sam's hands away from his wound, wanting, _needing_ a reprieve from the pain to keep himself locked down, under control.

"Hey, don't get pissed at me! We're on the same side, remember!" Sam shot back, sitting back on his hunches, his hands dropping to his knees as he looked to his brother, an imploring light in his eyes that outshone any anger that existed within him.

"Yeah, right, sorry," Dean exhaled, the fight leaving him at the tender, worried way Sam was looking at him. "Sam, that guy Dylan," he began, shaking his finger toward the door where Dylan was last sighted, "he makes me reallythink Hendrickson's a great guy."

Though he knew Dean was trying to lighten the mood, Sam couldn't join him, not when Dean's eyes had that haunted look in them, like they had the months following their father's death. "You alright?" Sam quietly asked, eyes studying his brother's features for what Dean wouldn't admit.

"You're the one who almost got a bullet to the head," Dean's voice was low, almost a choked whisper as his green eyes latched onto the sight of his very alive little brother like it were a lifeline.

"Sometimes it's easier to be the rescruee than the rescuer," Sam reasoned with a small smile, trying hard to shut out the memories of helplessly watching Dean being buried alive.

Dean snorted but the response jolted his chest, spiking his pain. Wrapping his arms around his ribs to brace them, he shot back, his pain making his voice low and gravely, "Yeah, stitch that on a pillow."

A desperation to ease some of Dean's pain flared in Sam. Cringing, he took in his brother's uncomfortable prone position, the way he lay diagonal across the mattress, his head and upper back lying on the hard floor of the barracks. "Alright let's get you back on the bed," Sam proposed. Before Dean could barely process his brother's intentions, Sam stood, took a step to the side, bent over and slid his hands under Dean's shoulders. As gently as he could, Sam pivoted Dean.

"Stop moving me around like furniture!" Dean protested but it came too late because Sam had already settled him back on the mattress. Was already stepping to his other side where he had left the discarded towel that he had been using earlier to clean Dean's face.

Kneeling again beside Dean, Sam raised an unopened water bottle like a prize. "Well at least they gave us some water so I can clean your side. Too bad I never got a chance to snag Bill's cross necklace," his regret and self chastisement clear to Dean. In response, Dean bestowed a smug smile on Sam which caused the younger Winchester to tilt his head questioningly, sent his brow furrowing with worry because this version of Dean's smile was a loaded bag in the best of times.

Dean's smile didn't diminish at Sam's skeptical look but brighten as he reached his hand into his pocket. "Sammy, you're not the only klepto in the family," Dean boasted as he extracted his hand and dangled the cross necklace between them. A proud smile now making an appearance on his own features, Sam, with deft fingers, instantly stole the necklace from Dean's hold. "A little grabby today or what?" Dean shot back, stunned to be robbed of his prize so quickly and easily.

"You think this will work," Sam asked hesitantly, rubbing the silver cross pendant reverently with his thumb before looking to Dean's pale, dirty face, studying his brother's pain dulled eyes. His enthusiasm of a moment earlier was tempered however. Having brushed Dean's fingers when he snagged the necklace from his brother's hand, Sam had felt the feverish heat his brother's body was giving off. It raised doubts in him that the holy water would prove to be a cure all.

"Should," Dean offered, lending as much hope as he had to the project.

Latching onto Dean's optimism, weak as it was, Sam nodded his head and lowered the cross into the water bottle…only to discover it was larger than the opening of the bottle.

"Ah great," Dean groaned, "figures."

"Wait, just wait," Sam countered. Bracing the water bottle between his legs, he attempted to force the cross into the bottle.

"Don't break one of the ….beamy thingies!" Dean nagged, pointing to the cross that just wasn't budging. "It won't work for real if.."

"Would you just let me do it," Sam grunted back, twisting the cross like he would to remove an uncooperative ring from his finger.

"Dude, give it here," Dean ordered, reaching for the bottle. Slapping Dean's hand away, Sam continued to struggle with the cross but to no avail.

Knowing that a change in tactics was required, Sam clenched the cross tightly in his fist and scanned the smoke and water damaged barracks for something to work with. Then it saw it, the twisted metal of one of the bed frames that he had kicked across the barracks. Climbing to his feet, Sam snatched the water bottle from the ground and crossed to the metal bed frame. Bending down, Sam rubbed the water bottle's neck against one of the sharpest edges of the damaged frame. Soon the plastic gave way to the metal and it wasn't long before Sam had nearly cut off the top of the bottle. With brutal strength, Sam used his hand to rip the rest of the bottle top off. Returning to Dean's side, Sam knelt down with a triumphant look on his face, holding up the now submissive water bottle in his hands.

"Yeah, yeah, my hero," Dean mumbled, earning a glare from Sam that he couldn't help smiling at.

"Ok, here we go," Sam said with a release of breath. Letting the chain of the necklace slip through his hand, he lowered the silver cross lower into the water. Silence fell for a full minute before Sam raised his eyes expectantly to Dean. At his brother's blank look, Sam raised his eyebrows. "Now would be a good time to start the incantation Dean," he prodded with impatience.

"I don't know the incantation, you do," Dean shot back, brow creased in irritation.

"You know Latin." The laughter that erupted a moment later from Sam was somewhat unhinged. "Don't even _tell_ me you don't know Latin, Dean," his eyes pinning Dean to the mattress.

"It was the wolf …" Dean refuted but he wasn't meeting Sam's look anymore. Had instead, found the dirt stain in the middle of his brother's shirt fascinating.

"Dean, if it was because of the wolf, you'd still be making up Latin curses," Sam cut in, raising the bottle of yet to be holy water to prove his point. It surprised him when Dean reacted by turning his head away from him, by shutting him out. It made Sam's next words not the accusing ones that he had intended them to be. Instead they were sad, gentle, confused, "The Latin. It was all you."

Dean's head snapped around, his eyes blazing at the accusation he thought Sam was leveling at him. "You think I've been boycotting English on purpose?! You think I was messing with Dylan?!? Risking your life for kicks?!"

"No. NO! That's not what I meant, Dean," Sam declared forcefully his voice cracking with emotion. Taking in a steadying breath he tried again, "No, Dean I meant the hit on your head, being knocked unconscious, it …it made you forget English."

"Language amnesia?! Come on, Sam!" Dean huffed, dismissing it out of hand as he shuffled on the bed, winced at the motion even as he deemed himself deserving of the pain.

"Then you explain it, Dean," Sam gently posed. At Dean's hot glare but silent comeback, Sam continued using his soft reasonable tone. "If people can forget their names don't you think they could forget one of their languages…fall back on another language…a language they are fluent in?!"  
"I am not fluent in Latin! I hardly…" Dean protested, voice raising.

"Yes you are, Dean," Sam insisted evenly, his eyes meeting his brother's green gaze. "You speak it better than I do."

"No, Sam. I don't," Dean denied, with sorrow and disgust, his eyes flickering away from Sam to rest on the other side of the room. "I never could. You and Dad, it was always your thing, not mine. I'm the brawn. I know what I'm good for," he bitterly admitted.

"What?!" Sam scoffed, his breath leaving him. "Look at me. Come on, Dean," Sam implored, watching his brother's profile, taking note of the tight clench of Dean's jaw. "What?! You can beg for my life but you can't look at me!" Sam accused, pulling off the kid gloves in a last ditch effort to maintain his connection with Dean, to not let his brother shove his own hurts under a rug like they didn't matter. After a moment, Dean's head rolled back to him, his brother's hard eyes lancing into him. "Make me understand this Dean," Sam gently bade. "Why did you always make Dad or I do all the Latin incantations? I mean, in Fitchburg you pretended you didn't even understand any Latin. What the heck, Dean?" Sam demanded, anger beginning to seep in against his best intentions.

"Don't go getting all indignant, Sam," Dean replied curtly, his voice rough. Gearing up for the confrontation he felt brewing, Dean sent a challenging glare to Sam, prodding him to bring into the fight whatever he had, because anger he could deal with. Anger he could shrug off, could justify.

"You've been conning me, Dean. Why?" Sam pressed, feeling the tension building in his shoulders even as he struggled to not let his brother antagonize him. It was one of Dean's most effective defense mechanisms, instigating anger, starting heated arguments, while he inconspicuously shoved the real issues aside, buried them in a grave, tossed them out the Impala's window.

Dean denied, "Come on! I wasn't trying to.."

"Yeah, yeah you were. And what I want to know is why," Sam cut in, his tone as unflinching as the gaze he leveled at Dean.

"Let it go, Sam," Dean snarled, having been pushed as far as he would allow Sam that luxury.

"No," Sam replied, shaking his head. "You talk about me keeping secrets, rail at me for running away from you but you do the same thing, Dean. You kept the mother of all secrets about me and now…now your keeping _other_ secrets from me! And after Dad died, you could be sitting right beside me, but you weren't _there_, Dean. You were gone, somewhere without me, someplace that I wasn't welcome, you shut me out and if you think that didn't hurt…" Sam broke off, his voice cracking on the last word. He looked away, ashamed because he hadn't meant to cross that line, to unearth what had finally been laid to some kind of rest.

"Crap, Dean," Sam exhaled, rubbing his face with his hand. "I'm just tired of things coming between us, aren't you?" he earnestly asked, his eyes alighting on Dean's again. Only to find himself gutted by the vulnerable look in Dean's eyes, undimmed by the tight set of his brother's lips. "What is this about Dean?" Sam appealed, his tone soft, gentle as his eyes rested on his brother's face. "Cause if this is another one of your screwed up views of who's smarter, who's more valuable to whom, I'm gonna…"  
"I messed up on a translation, alright. Got Dad hurt…almost killed," Dean confessed in a rush of air, his eyes focused on Sam, steeling himself for his brother's look of disappointment. "And Dad said…" Dean shook his head, cut himself off as he dropped his eyes from Sam's.

"And Dad said what, Dean?" Sam pressed, striving to keep his tone calm, to do nothing to jeopardize Dean's openness, to betray the trust his brother was putting in him. But dread was stirring in him, anger at his father was just waiting to flare to life at the smallest provocation.

Exhaling, giving Sam a shamed look before he ducked his head, Dean said, "Dad told me to let the Latin up to him…or you. That if I didn't…" Dean smirked, a sad gesture that nearly broke Sam's heart, "he said I would end up getting him killed…or you."

Sam didn't experience one spark of guilt for feeling a raging anger toward a man that was dead, a man that was his father, was Dean's father, was Dean's _hero_. Keeping his curses on John Winchester's head internal, Sam exhaled a shaky breath, nodded his head, could feel his teeth grinding against themselves as he tried to work through the fury he felt. "How old were you?" Sam asked, surprised at how low, how tight his voice was.

His now masked eyes coming up to Sam's, Dean briskly answered, "Doesn't matter, Sam," as if the conversation was over, the matter dropped.

"Dean, how old were you?" Sam repeated, more resolve edging into his tone.

"I don't know, thirteen..fourteen," Dean answered, shame tinting his words.

Feeling as if he would explode or implode, Sam stood up, walked to the small wire meshed window and pressed his hand against the wire as he struggled to defuse the time bomb inside himself. It seemed inconceivable that he hadn't realized the scars John Winchester was scoring across Dean, even as he scored them on him. And where Sam had protested the abuse, deflected the blows, and resented the emotional wounds, Dean had simply taken the abuse in silence, absorbed the blows and accepted the pain as if it were his due. Now Sam realized that his own wounds were mostly superficial, shallow because Dean had always stepped in the way of the blows, sheltered his little brother, valued Sam's youth, his innocence even as he gave up his own.

Gripping tighter to the wire mesh, Sam jaw clenched as he struggled to wrestle his wayward emotions under control. "He was wrong Dean. Dad was wrong," Sam announced, his voice hoarse, choked as he kept his back to Dean, not wanting Dean to see that he was barely keeping it together. '_A thousand times and in a thousand ways Dad was wrong. Mostly he was wrong to hurt you, to make you feel inferior, to make you think for one second that his death, my death would be on your head, no matter what ever happened on a hunt, or in this life.' _

"No, no he wasn't Sam," Dean countered solemnly, watching his brother's back stiffen at his words. "I almost got you killed today, my Latin almost got you killed. You know, I thought.." a bitter laugh escaped Dean, sent a shiver down Sam's spine, "see I thought if I practiced it, if I got really good at Latin then, if I ever had to use it when you or Dad were around I would do it right, would save you instead of fail you. Freakin' ironic how everything I do, everything I _try_ to do right, turns out so badly."

Sam swung around to face Dean, frustration and affection mingling on his features. "Dean, this was not your fault!" he growled. "Any of this."

"Riggghhhttt," Dean drawled with sarcastic bitterness. Struggling to sit up, he used his feet to shuffle backward until his back rested up against the wall. With exhausted resignation, he rolled his head to face Sam fully. "'Cause we still would have gotten tagged for cultists and ended up here if I woke up speaking English. And my speaking Latin had nothing to do with the fanclub I've gathered in here, or with you almost getting your head blown off." Then his voice shifted, became hard, unrelenting, even as his eyes reflected his hurt, offered up apologies to Sam, " Come on, Sam! It's been my fault the whole time, all of it! I mean, who wakes up speaking Latin?! Who gets a freakin' blow to the head and forgets English?! And you're worried that you're the freak!" he scoffed, shaking his head as he looked away from Sam.

"You're the one who's always telling me that what happened to Jessica, to Mom isn't my fault but it is my problem. You telling me you don't believe that anymore?" Sam asked, stepping back to his brother's side.

His eyes flying to Sam's, Dean began to refute, "You know I do, but this is diff..".

"No, it's not Dean. This was out of your control, wasn't something you planned or _deserved_," Sam insisted, crossing the distance that separated him from his brother. Sinking to his knees beside Dean, he gently persuaded, "Let's just chalk this one up to Winchester piss poor luck, alright?"

For a moment, the brothers' eyes held, offering up apologies and forgiveness in equal parts until a small smile found its way onto Dean's lips. "You know, that's an insult to piss poor luck everywhere," Dean pointed out.

"What can I tell you, we Winchesters love to exceed expectations," Sam boasted with a smile. Then he picked up the water bottle with the cross lying peaceful at the bottom and held it out to Dean. "So, you going to do the honors?"

"Dude, just because I know Latin, doesn't mean I have every incantation memorized," Dean scoffed, some of the shadows that lurked in his eyes fading with Sam's forgiveness. "I mean, if I knew all that, what would I need you around for, geek boy?" he challenged but he couldn't keep the affectionate smile from pulling up his lips.

"To save your butt, that's what for," Sam countered with mock indignation, his own lips slipping upward. "Now shut up and let me do this," he ordered as he began to speak the incantations, now a little self conscious in the face of Dean's Latin prowess. Sneaking a glance to Dean, wondering how his Latin was faring in Dean's estimation, Sam was surprised to see the same expression on Dean's face that his brother always wore when he took on the task of speaking Latin: pride, pride in him.

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TBC

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Well, I'm a little worried here that you're disappointed in the conclusion/resolution of the Latin speaking Dean portion of this tale. It had to end sometime and I figured, to save Sam, Dean would find a way to ditch the dead language. As for the Latin not being supernaturally induced, that was my evil plan all along! It came out of hearing Dean speaking Latin in Crossroad Blues like he was born to it (and sounding way too sexy doing it). That gave me the revelation that Dean did know Latin, could read it and speak it with the best of 'em. Hence this evil plot bunny sprang to mind! So see, it's not really my fault, I was heavy influenced by a gorgeous man!

Thank you all so much for reading this chapter! And a thousand thank yous to my awesome band of reviewers from last chapter! I so loved your responses to the cliffie! Your encouragement keeps me plugging away at this story and taking the risk of posting chapter after chapter! I really appreciate your thoughtfulness and support!

Until next chapter…..

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	12. Winchester Water Torture

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: Sorry about the delay in posting! The chapter just wouldn't come together and then my internet connection went AWOL!

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Chapter 12: Winchester Water Torture

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Pain. Dean Winchester was no stranger to it, knew the hot feel of its touch intimately. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, its phantom tendrils would jerk him awake, would have him clawing at a wound long since healed. Left disoriented, stripped of his guard, fear would then slither into his soul, fear for the future, for the pain that might be in store for him the next day or on the next hunt or on his final hunt. But maybe worse than the fear was the dread, the doubt that coiled in him, that he might not prove strong enough or brave enough or _man enough_ to endure what lay ahead.

It was a bitter irony that holy water was proving Dean's self doubt well–founded, that something only evil should fear was igniting a level of agony in him that was doing its best to break him, body and soul. That, when that first drop of holy water fell upon the wound on his side, a raw scream ripped from him as the water felt like acid, burning through his skin and veins, muscles and bones.

Whatever uncertainties Sam had about the validity of their "holy" water or doubts that the wolf's evil had any effect on his brother's health vanished at Dean's reaction. His brother's scream of agony decimated Sam's composure, scared him, broke him in ways he hadn't been before. With trembling frantic hands, Sam tilted the water bottle upright. Unwilling to allow another _drop_ of the water to touch Dean, to hurt his brother, to garner another cry of unmitigated agony from someone that endured pain better than anyone else Sam had ever met. In misery, Sam watched Dean roll onto his wounded side, left hand clutching the source of his agony, knees drawn up, head tucked down almost touching Sam's knee as his scream died down to a low moan in his throat.

Quickly sitting the water bottle down, Sam raised his right hand and rested it at the base of his brother's bowed head. Leaning down to see Dean's face, Sam felt sick at the agony that lined his brother's facial features. Giving Dean's neck an encouraging squeeze, Sam stammered, "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. It's over now." But Dean only coiled into a tighter ball, groaned lower in his throat, gripped more of the mattress in his right hand, because the agony wasn't lessening, was intensifying, was threatening to spread across his torso. "Just hold on, the pain will fade, I promise," Sam soothed, using that gentle tone that he had never heard from his own father, had instead picked up from Dean.

Dean wanted to hold onto Sam's promise, to let it blindly lie to him, to have the agony stop now, to just this _once_ take the easy path and to heck with the consequences. But somewhere down deep, where all his lies melted away to truth, Dean knew what consequences there could be if he gave in now, let the job go unfinished, half done. Consequences that he alone wouldn't bear, consequences that would also affect Sam, endanger Sam. And that just wasn't acceptable.

His eyes clamped shut, his body still curled tightly to ward off the agony, Dean lowly ordered through his clenched jaw. "Can't…stop. Finish it, Sam. Now."

"Dean," Sam pleaded, shaking his head in denial, railing against the idea of inflicting further torture on his brother, even as he knew that the wound might not be clean.

"Please…Sammy. I want it …done," Dean breathlessly ground out, physically unable to move, to raise his head, to convey his need to Sam with a look. Instead all he could do was let his desperation seep through his words, his raw voice, to hope that Sam would honor his request.

Biting his lip, Sam nodded in agreement, though Dean couldn't see the gesture. "Ok…alright," he finally forced from his constricted throat, his reluctance mingling with resolve to not let Dean down, to not fail Dean when he was counting on him. With a final squeeze on the back of Dean's neck, Sam slid his hand down to Dean's shoulder and gently but forcefully eased Dean onto his back again. Sam kept his hand on Dean's shoulder as an anchor as he patiently waited as Dean uncoiled from the tight ball he had instinctively went into, forced himself to drop his knees and let his head fall again back onto the mattress. But Sam still couldn't even _consider_ removing his hold on Dean, of proceeding with the next round of cleansing the wound, not until he knew Dean was ready, was really ready, wanted him to do this, understood that the last thing Sam wanted to do was this, was hurt him.

When Dean pried his eyes open, focused his gaze upon Sam, amid the pain, there was undeniable trust in the green depths. "Do it, Sam," Dean sanctioned, his voice still wracked with pain even as it conveyed strength, conviction, and trust.

Swallowing hard, his mouth dry, Sam clenched his jaw, set his teeth gnashing against one another as if it was his throat that would ache to unleash a scream this time around. Increasing the pressure of his hand on Dean's shoulder, Sam picked up the bottle of holy water and, with his eyes locked on Dean's, he poured more of the water on his brother's open wounds.

Groaning loudly, his body arching upward against Sam's restraining hand on his shoulder, Dean, for the first time, wanted to beg, not to save Sammy, not for some noble outcome, but for himself, to have the pain _stop_! Because this pain, it was well on its way to breaking him, of proving, once and for all, that he wasn't _man enough_ to handle it. But where his pride faltered, his love for his brother filled in the gaps. Had him clutching the mattress under his hands instead of griping Sam's arm, knocking the bottle from his brother's hands, had him letting loose an inarticulate yell of agony instead of the '_Stop_ _Sam! Please stop_!' that was screaming in his head. Because if he broke under Sam's hands, under his brother's ministrations, Sam would break too, would think he had brought Dean to this edge, would heap his brother's pain, his brother's breakdown onto his own head, would bear that hurt in his heart.

With tears threatening, Sam knew that he couldn't bare witnessing Dean's pain for much longer, knew that his hands would increase their trembling if he didn't complete his task soon. So with resolve, he generously poured more water on the open wound and sent some of the water splashing over his brother's ribs, grateful that there was no reaction on that part of his brother's body. Then, before he lost all nerve, before Dean managed to roll away again, Sam leaned over Dean's chest, slid his arm around Dean's shoulders, pinning Dean to the ground. With a glance to his brother's pale face, closed eyes, Sam emptied the remaining water over the cut on Dean's forehead, the gashes on his cheeks. When the dousing of those wounds didn't evoke a heightened reaction from Dean, was not yet another source of agony for his brother to endure, a muffled sob of relief escaped Sam. In angry frustration, Sam tossed the now empty bottle away from Dean, as if it were the instrument of his brother's agony and not his own actions.

Remaining as he was, his arm across Dean's shoulders, his head coming to tilt against Dean's, Sam held on, didn't try to shut out the howl of agony that erupted from his brother as an anguished moan. When he felt his brother's arm on his back, he thought Dean would try to pull him away, to break free. Instead Dean's arm pressed against his back, pulling him tighter to his brother's chest with a desperation that scared Sam.

"I'm done, I'm done. The pain's gonna lessen soon, Dean. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," Sam promised his voice gentle even as it was wracked with regret and pain and love. Tightening his grip on his brother's shoulder, Sam vowed, "And neither are you. We're staying together from here on out. I'm not going to run off on my own anymore or go getting possessed and taking shots at you…you know when I get a weird weed up my butt."

A hitch in his moan was the best Dean could offer up as a response to his brother's humor because laughter was beyond his power, not when agony was singeing along every nerve he had. But regardless of his agony, of his weakness, of the strong pull of unconsciousness, Dean refused to surrender to the void, to pile more weight onto his brother's already warped sense of guilt. Instead, Dean forced his fingers to gather some of the back of Sam's shirt into its grip, hoping that Sam would understand what the gesture meant, that he had heard his promise…was going to make him keep his word.

Feeling Dean fist his shirt in his hand, Sam slid his hand to cup the side of Dean's neck. "Hey, Dean, do you remember that time Dad got that cut on his butt and he wanted you to douse it in holy water? As soon as Dad dropped his pants you closed your eyes and you ended up pouring the water all over his back, missing his butt completely," Sam recalled with a forced laugh that trembled. "When Dad caught you closing your eyes, he asked you why and you…you said you didn't want to be mentally scarred for the rest of your life." Sam shook his head marginally against Dean's. "Crap, Dean, no matter how bad things got…you saw us through it, made us laugh, kept Dad and I …together the best you could, anyone could. I never thanked you for that, for making us a family."

Clamping his eyes shut tighter, Dean gasped out in protest, "No," feeling that he was totally unworthy of that praise, not when he had been the reason their father was dead. "No, Sam. I…I didn't," he denied, a shattered edge to his tone.

"Yeah, yeah you did, jerk. Even at the end. If you had died," Sam shook his head swallowed, was glad he didn't have to face Dean to say the words. "Dad and I…we would have never …it was always you, Dean. You were always the thing that kept us together, the one thing that Dad and I could agree on when we couldn't agree even on the color of the sky. Don't belittle that Dean, don't belittle your importance to Dad, to me. Just…don't, dude. Don't."

Feeling the edge Sam was on, what he was asking of him, needing of him, Dean opened his eyes and loosened his hand on Sam's shirt. Sliding his hand to Sam's head, Dean agreed "'Kay," because he couldn't find it in himself to deny Sam much of anything. He felt Sam's chest swell with a deep intake of air and then Sam was pulling back from him. Dean let his hand fall to the ground, let Sam go even as his eyes tracked him.

Sitting up beside Dean, Sam had intended to see how his brother's side was faring but he found he couldn't tear his eyes away from his brother's gaze. "Are you alright?" his voice breathless, worried.

"Getting there," Dean answered lowly, opting for the truth in light of his brother's emotional state.

Sam nodded his head but it took him half a minute to be able to look away, to force himself to face the damage he had inflicted on Dean's flesh in an effort to help him. The claw marks that marred Dean's flesh were now starkly visible, whatever blood had still been seeping from the wounds had stopped flowing. "Looks clean…sorta. How does it feel?" Sam asked anxiously, his eyes sliding to Dean's.

"Like some wolf clawed the crap… out of me and then acid… was poured into it," Dean wise cracked, his breath coming to him a little easier now.

"Oh, good, here I thought it might hurt or something," Sam wisecracked back, a fake smile on his face. Picking up a dry towel, he ripped it into a longer strip. "Ok, I'm going to cover it so…" he halted as he held up the fabric and eyed his brother's prone body. Suddenly his next plan of action didn't seem so easy.

Anticipating his brother's intentions to wrap the towel around his waist, Dean reached his hand toward Sam with a long suffering look that clearly said, 'what I do for you'.

"You…you sure? I could roll you over…" Sam stammered with uncertainty and concern, his dark eyes assessing his brother's state of health.

Dean's reply was to snap his fingers on his outstretched hand, "Today, Sammy," he prodded, leveling Sam with an impatient glare.

With a sigh of exasperation at egotistical big brothers, Sam wrapped his hand in Dean's offered hand and pulled his brother into a seated position. Dean's throaty groan had Sam cursing and quickly slipping his hand around Dean's back to ensure that Dean didn't topple backwards.

Though he kept his look straight ahead as if he was oblivious to his own weakness and pain, Dean wrapped his hand around Sam's knee to anchor himself, to remind himself that though the room was tilting on him, he was fine, that Sam wouldn't let him take a nose dive into the barrack's floor. After a few moments of inaction, of a span of time where Sam didn't move, simply sat there, his arm wrapped around his back, Dean chanced turning his head toward his sibling and was met with Sam's intense, inspecting, worried gaze. "Sam. You need…me to sign…a release…form or what?" Dean groused, effectively breaking his brother out of his scared stupor. But then, as Sam wrapped the towel around Dean's waist, Sam's hands hit a sensitive section of Dean's ribs, eliciting a hiss of startled pain from Dean.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, cursing himself for not taking more care. With even gentler motions, he tucked the end of the towel into the wound fabric, completing the makeshift bandage. "Done. Lay down again?" Sam said, half in question and half in order.

"Yeah," Dean breathed out, forcing himself to release his grip on Sam's knee when Sam started to lower him back down onto the mattress again. He gritted his teeth as the skin around his wound pulled and his ribs seemed to constrict around his lungs at the motion. By the time his head was carefully resettled onto the mattress by Sam's long fingered hand, he was breathing shallowly to defuse the pain.

Fussing a moment with the towel bandage, making sure it was still in place, Sam purposefully did not look to Dean, didn't want to see the haunting pain in his brother's eyes. But when Dean's fingers caught his hand, halting his movement, Sam's eyes skidded up to his brother's.

"We have to get out of here, Sam. Tomorrow," Dean announced, trying hard to instill strength in his words. Immediately, he saw Sam's face telegraph his brother's protest.

"What?! Dean, you can't! You're…" Sam objected incredulously, but Dean spoke over his words.

"Listen to me, Sam!" Dean cut in, his eyes singeing into his brother's, desperate to make his point. Drawing in a deep breath into his tight lungs, Dean worked to slow his heart rate, to even out his breathing, to put the pain away. He knew that he had to sound sure of himself, that his breath couldn't hitch, his eyes couldn't flicker away from Sam's hard stare, not if he wanted to convince Sam that staying was a death sentence. "Sam, Commando Ken is gonna waste us sooner or later." Dean stopped to let that sink in with Sam as much as to allow himself time to catch his breath. When Sam didn't offer a protest to his statement, Dean pressed on, "Even if he keeps us around a few days… all it will take is him dropping my name into a database …and then we'll have Hendrickson showing up." He conjured up a smirk then, hoping Sam couldn't see how shaky his intake of breath was. "And yeah, I _might_ like Hendrickson better than Dylan …but I'm really not down with taking a lethal injection in the veins. So I'm ready to shag butt out of here."

A smile crept onto Sam's face at his brother's words.

Confusion stopped Dean short, caused him to tilt his head and level a bewildered look to his brother "What?"  
"Nothing, it's just….you saying things like 'Commando Ken' and 'shag butt'. I …I missed that…you know, the way you talk," Sam revealed, affection in his tone and a light in his eyes.

Caught off guard by his brother's sentimental attachment to his turn of phrase, Dean shrugged his shoulders, "I'm…I'm just saying…"

"I know what you're saying," Sam reassured, his tone unchanged, still sporting a smile. '_I always have, Dean'_ he left unsaid. "I guess I'm not supposed to point out that you were the one that told Dylan your name?" he stated, a slight accusation in his tone,

"You really think he would have fallen for Hector Aframian or Agent Ford or any of the other aliases we came up with?" Dean parried, eyebrows raised. "'Sides, we needed to buy ourselves some time. If he runs my name he's gonna just peg me .._us_ in the same class as the other convicts he has on his work detail. You know, no threat to his little housing development thing."

But a caution look of disagreement settled on Sam's face, "Dean, we started his barracks on fire, pissed off all his workers _and_ his guards and you were working really hard to antagonize him."

"Antagonize _him_?! Sam he was going to have Chase blow your head off!" Dean growled, menace in his tone, sparkling in his eyes. Dean's exhaustion, physical hurt was shoved aside in lieu of the fury he still felt at Dylan's threat against his brother.

"You accused him of being dishonorably discharged," Sam pointed out, hoping to shift Dean's focus away from some misguided need to retaliate for the aggression made against his little brother.

Dean's dark eyes watched Sam a moment, knew what his brother was trying to do. "Yeah, so. He probably was," Dean grumbled, conceding Sam's point. Surviving had to be his focus, not revenge.   
"Yeah, well, that didn't earn a lot of goodwill with him," Sam lightly drawled, a tight fake smirk on his lips.

"That's exactly why we should bail tomorrow. Why wait for him to finally decide he should have been more pissed about that comment," Dean looked steadily up at Sam and unleashed his 'I've got a plan' smile, the one that made Sam's gut clench in dread.

"Dean, it's not going to be easy getting out of here. We're pretty far off the main road," Sam warned, feeling a spike in the level of tension settling on his shoulders.

"Guess that's one of the selling points for their housing development: isolation, seclusion," Dean glossily countered, wearing a bigger smile. And his eyes shone in anticipation of the next day, of finally getting the opening to act instead of being relegated to reacting, of putting a stop to his helplessness.

Reading his brother's excitement, Sam felt he had no recourse but to play mother hen, to make Dean face his own weakness because the alternative, losing Dean, was out of the question. "I know we did the whole holy water thing, that it should lower your fever or get rid of it, maybe. But Dean, you still have bruised maybe cracked ribs, three deep slices in your side and a headwound that was serious enough to have you talking Latin for two days. You..you're not …"

"I know, Sam," Dean lowly admitted to his own weaknesses, his eyes meeting Sam's unflinchingly. "I know I'm going to be a liability to you and, hey, if you want my real vote, I say you make a run for it on your own."

"Dean, NO! I said no and I meant it! Why can't…" Sam protested, his voice spiking higher like it had always done during his yelling matches with his father.  
"Then stop sending mixed messages, dude!" Dean's own yell slashed across Sam's. "It's either we go together or you go and I stay. But what isn't negotiable is the departure date. It has to be tomorrow."

His voice dropping lower to his 'I'm making sense and you know it' tone, Sam rationalized, "One more day won't…."

But Dean shook his head, "My gut says we leave tomorrow or we won't ever leave."

Falling silent, Sam stared at Dean, saw the seriousness in his brother's eyes and knew that he trusted Dean's instincts as fully as he trusted Dean's promises. "Alright but I'm taking the lead. You do _what_ I say, _when_ I say to do it," Sam ordered, steel in his tone that rarely surfaced.

"Sam.." Dean growled in refusal.  
"No, that's the way it's going to play out Dean. I don't know how we're going to do this but if we end up on foot, I don't want you refusing to let me carry you, getting all sacrificial again. I won't let your pride get you killed…or me." With those last two words Sam knew he was playing dirty, was using his brother's love for him against him. But there was little guilt rising in him because he had learned a long time ago that there wasn't much he wasn't willing to do to keep Dean safe. "So say it," Sam demanded, his sharp eyes on Dean as if they themselves were lie detectors.

"Say what," Dean grumbled like a kid, a scowl on his features.

"Promise me that you'll do what I say, when I say it, that you'll let me take the lead," Sam clarified, his tone void of compromise.

"Fine," Dean snapped out, eyes dropping from Sam's.

"No. Promise Dean," Sam insisted, needing this from Dean to be able to even _think _about making some crazy grab for freedom the next day. Heck, Sam knew Dean's promise and only his promise would keep panic from running rampage within him.

"Yeah, yeah, I promise. I'll let you play big man on campus and I'll 'yes sir' you and flip you a salute" Dean agreed gracelessly, saying under his breath, "Yeah, a one fingered salute".

"Alright, since I have _your word_," Sam pressed, hoping to guilt Dean into making a more serious sounding promise.

"What? You need it in blood? I mean you can probably scoop some out of my side yet…" Dean shot back, lifting his head to look down in the direction of his wounded side.

Putting his hand on Dean's forehead, Sam pushed Dean's head back onto the mattress. "I've seen enough of your blood to last me a lifetime. Now do you have a plan for getting out of here?"  
"No, Sam, I just thought I would just convince Dylan to let us make a run to Home Depot tomorrow for supplies to fix up the ole barracks here. You know, to do our penance and all that," Dean drawled with ridicule.

"Plan, Dean. You got one or not?" Sam demanded, barely keeping the sigh out of his words.

"I always have a plan, Sammy," Dean boasted, offering up that full blown smile on his face that always made Sam want to groan or curse.

"Yeah, but whether it'll work, that's the real question," Sam voiced but the showcased doubt was more reflexively than truthfully. Dean's plans were reckless but they had a tendency to work.

"Ye of little faith," Dean mockingly accused, eagerness and hope in the look he bestowed on his little brother.

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TBC

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As always, thank you for the awesome reviews last chapter! I was so relieved that no one wanted to lynch me for how I resolved Dean's Latin problem. Thank you all for your support!

Though this chapter didn't hold much "water" (ha ha ha) to the story's progression, it's the bridge to the great escape we've been waiting for!

Thanks to everyone one who took the time to read this chapter and is still willing to continue the journey with me!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	13. Bound for Freedom

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: Ok, so I admit I wrote myself into a corner for awhile there but I finally found my way out! Whew! These adventure tales take some serious thinking on my part…something I'm apparently just not equipped to do sometimes! Hope you like how things play out in this chapter….

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Chapter 13: Bound for Freedom

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Contingency plans. Every great strategist had them, in spades because if there one thing every leader had learned, it was that there was entirely too much truth in '_Whatever can go wrong, will_.' Dean Winchester considered himself a consummate strategist, had never walked willingly into a situation without at least three half decent contingency plans in his back pocket. But this…this was not fair and he made no attempt to hide his displeasure. "This isn't fair," he growled menacingly, dark eyes on his hands.

Sam couldn't help looking at the other occupants of the truck that was once again bouncing its way to the happy sewer line. If these hardened men had seemed reluctant to tangle with a Latin spewing Dean they seemed down right afraid of doing anything to even garner a _glance_ from the now English speaking, enraged Dean. "Dean," Sam said under his breath, trying to get Dean to snap out of it, to defuse some of the fury pouring off of his brother.

"No, Sam. This is not fair!" Dean shot back, voice rising as his head did, eyes clashing with Sam's calm expression.

"Did you expect…" Sam let the rest of his flippant reply fall silent as Dean's eyes morphed into a flinty black glare. This was not the time to throw logic at his brother, to try and make him see the world as he did. "So I guess this wasn't part of the plan, huh?" he aimed for lightness, offering up a flash of a small smile.

When Dean's left hand flew up, Sam winced as if he expected a blow to be landed. But instead the chain that bound his brother's wrist to his own swayed in front of his face, mocking them both. "This _look_ like part of the plan," Dean snarled lowly, eyes scanning the other inmates and finding that not one man held his gaze. Dejectedly, he lowered his bound hand again to his lap, let his eyes follow his hand's progression.

"Well, I think that's going to be the way things are from here on out, Dean," Sam calmly pointed out, needing to get Dean past his fury, his frustration, back to being the brains in this take on 'the great escape'.

Dean ran his free right hand over his face, shook his head and let out a sigh before raising his eyes again to Sam, eyes determined and sharp. "Alright, so we make a slight change. Get some freakin' handcuff keys then we …" conscious of the other audience in the truck, he lowered his voice, "you know."

"We don't know who has the keys. Chase put the cuffs on us but…" Sam was forced to point out, bracing for his brother's response.

"That other guy handed them to him. You seen that other guy before, like out here with the work detail?" Dean asked, his eyes going to the two guards sitting at the end of the truck, determining again that neither of them had metamorphosed into the man he sought.

"No, never saw him out here or back there before. And none of the other inmates are in cuffs so…."

"So we might have to assume that none of these guards out here have the key. Crap!" Dean looked down at the cuffs, let the fingers of his free hand inspect the lock. "If I had something to pick it with…." Looking up at Sam with a teasing smile he asked, "Don't suppose you're wearing hair pins these days to keep your fly away hair out of your eyes?"

"No, your forty dollar beauty salon hairspray's been during the job," Sam replied, engaging in one of their favorite lighthearted disputes.

"Hey, I'm worth it! And don't hate me because I'm beautiful Sammy," Dean drawled, making a show of batting his eyelashes.

Sam snorted, "Delusional much?"

"Jealousy doesn't become you, dude," Dean returned but his focus was again on the offensive metal handcuffs that bound him to Sam over the length of an 18 inch chain. "This is really not how I saw things going today," he sighed, wincing as the truck tilted left, jarring his ribs.

Closely watching Dean, Sam didn't miss the flash of pain that made an appearance on his brother's face or the way Dean pressed his right arm across his ribs. "You doing OK?" he quietly asked, eyes on Dean's face, hoping that Dean didn't decide, like he usually did, to blow off his concern.

Without looking to Sam, Dean nodded, mind busy on revamping his escape plan. The feeling in his gut that their days were numbered in single digits had only gotten sharper, had been with him when he and Sam had been woken up by Chase that morning. That certainty only made the cold metal around his wrist feel more like a noose around his neck, sealing his fate. Absently Dean moved the handcuff as far up his arm as it would go, rubbed the skin at his wrist where the manacle had lain the longest. Flexing his hand, he wondered what damage he'd have to inflict on his hand, on his wrist to be able to slip free of the leash.

Dean's fixation on the handcuff, the way his brother was fisting and releasing his left hand made Sam uncomfortable, made his own gut instincts flare to life. "Don't even think about it," he lowly warned, right hand wrapping around Dean's left wrist, earning him Dean's surprised eye contact as if he had been caught misbehaving. Jutting his chin toward his brother's hand, Sam spelled out, "You are not breaking your hand or dislocating your thumb or whatever other stupid idea you're having, just forget it. We'll deal with the cuffs later," his voice low, unflinching. But his next words were softener, were made to dampen the frustration in his brother's eyes, "At least they aren't ankle cuffs."

"Don't give 'em any ideas, Sam," Dean said, disgruntle, pulling his wrist from Sam's hold and dropping his bound hand into his lap, discarding, for the moment, the drastic measures Sam had just outlawed.

"Cheer up, maybe you'll find something in the sewer today, maybe an Indian arrow head or something, " Sam couldn't resist taunting. His laugh at Dean's murderous look was interrupted by Dean's sharp elbow into his side. "Ow! Easy," Sam moaned, rubbing his side as he leaned toward Dean's ear and whispered, "Don't injury the guy that might just have to carry your sorry carcass out of here."

"You won't have to," Dean growled in denial, eyes boring into Sam's laughing ones.

"But if I deem it necessary.." the rest Sam nearly sing songed, "you have to let me," unable to prevent himself from gloating at the promise he had exacted from his bossy older brother.

"It **won't** be necessary," Dean hissed back.

Sam shrugged, his smile still in place, "Just saying the possibility is there."

"Yeah, well it doesn't look like either of us is going solo," Dean grumbled picking up the chain between them and rattling it.

"Wasn't the plan, anyway. Right?" Sam words were dangerous, his eyes hard as they clashed with Dean's green gaze. Suddenly, anger threatened to cloud over their companionship of a second ago if Dean gave the slightest indication that he had contemplated the idea that Sam should leave without him.

"Right, wasn't the plan," Dean quietly agreed, his eyes skittering away from his brother's. '_Well, wasn't the primary plan…was more the backup plan,_' he admitted only to himself.

In that moment, between his fury and frustration and fear, Sam was glad for the handcuffs that bound him to Dean, would have gladly been saddled with ankle cuffs as long as it ensured Dean wouldn't bail on him, would stay at his side, come hell or high water. Shaking his head, jaw clenched, Sam forced himself to not respond, to not lash out with accusations. Accusations that he _knew_ he would deliver in the decibel range of a yell.

With no lingering doubts about what Dean had been planning, Sam snarled internally, '_Stubborn jerk_!' Certain now that Dean would have tried to convince him to leave him, would have insisted on it the first time that he faltered or thought he was slowing Sam down, or was somehow endangering his little brother's chances of escape.

"Alright, so the divide and conquer idea's out," Dean whispered, his head swinging back to Sam, not surprised to see the thunderous look on his brother's face. Deciding that he couldn't say anything to temper his brother's anger, Dean ignored the sensations rolling off of Sam. "We'll start on the right tire and if we have the opening, we'll do the left tire." At Sam's silence, punctuated only by his brother's dark glare and somewhat loud breathing, Dean tapped Sam's chest with the back of his left hand, "Hey, you in there or are you off astral planing again?"

With rising anger at Dean's attempt to belittle his worry, Sam latched onto Dean's wrist and tossed his brother's hand away from him. At Dean's grimace and grunt of pain at the subsequent pull on his ribs, Sam winced in guilt. Instantly, new anger boiled in Sam, anger at himself this time, for forgetting the pain Dean was still in, for letting Dean shuck and jive him into thinking he was fine, for falling for the mask his brother had donned since he had woken up that morning. Now Sam saw it, the paleness of his brother's face, the tight lines of pain around Dean's eyes and mouth, the right arm he braced against his ribs, the glossy look that hadn't gone away from his eyes. "Dean, I'm sorry," Sam breathed out, remorse and guilt and worry mingled in the three words, conveyed by the look he wore.

"For what?" Dean denied Sam's worry, his own pain, because if he didn't, if he acknowledged them he was sure the terror of failing Sam today would consume him. And failing Sam wasn't an option, not now, not with handcuffs fusing Sam's fate to his own. '_This is so unfair,_' his fingers again slid over the handcuff.

Unmercifully, Sam gave Dean his beseeching, pleading look and Dean believed that his little brother threw in a tremulous swallow for good measure, to ensure his successful breaching of his big brother's fortifications. "I'm fine, Sam," Dean lowly snapped but when Sam dropped his eyes to his hands, Dean knew Sam was being hurt by his deception, by the walls he was trying so hard to keep up. "I'm better than I was, alright," Dean admitted, his tone still low but gentle now, was rewarded with Sam's eye contact, though Sam's worried, too watery eyes didn't make Dean feel real great. "Thanks to you. Believe me, I know last night wasn't fun," Dean said, bitter laughter in his tone but it faded as he qualified, "for either of us. But you did good, Sammy." And Dean couldn't help but smile at seeing a blush tinge Sam's cheeks, to see the 'aw shucks' smile turn up his brother's lips.

Then companionable silence fell between the brothers as their bond held, wove itself tighter, fortified itself for what came next. Dean didn't protest when Sam's big bony right shoulder slid behind his back when the truck's motion had seemed intent on slamming him backwards into the side, nor did he make mention that Sam never moved his right hand during the whole trip, never jostled the chain that bound him to his brother, never caused the manacle that wrapped around Dean's wrist to move, to hurt Dean in any way. But when Dean slid his eyes to Sam, their eyes caught and that connection was enough, left words unnecessary. They were in this together, the whole way.

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When the troop transport truck jerked to a stop beside the two pickup trucks, the look the brothers shared before they climbed to their feet was one of resolve, of anticipation, of taking back control that had been denied them for way too long. As the inmates shuffled toward the edge of the truck bed, Sam shot Dean a look. His brother's slight nod was all that was needed to set things into motion.

For once glad for his long torso, Sam body slammed the row of inmates in front of him and his brother, and didn't stop his momentum until all three rows of men toppled off the truck. Before the last man had hit the ground, Sam looked to his right to confirm Dean was level with him, then, in sync, the brothers jumped to the ground.

Forcing himself to shut out the worry that flared in him at Dean's grunt of pain at his landing, Sam scrambled to the left in a low crouch, Dean at his back, their movement concealed by the downed and rising inmates in front of them. Stopping at the tire, Sam, with a few deft twists, had the top of the tire nozzle off. Dropping the nozzle, he dug in his pocket, but found that the handcuff and the chain made the process harder than he anticipated, made the search for the small bit of silver frustrating. He didn't waste time looking up to his brother when Dean shuffled to his side, didn't need to read the 'come on, come on' order in his brother's eyes to know it was there.

In triumph, Sam extracted the small piece of silver from his pocket that once had been the right beam of the cross pendant. He struggled a moment to maneuver the silver beam into the nozzle with his large hands, scowled until the silver finally pressed against the release pin in the nozzle. Then he slanted the silver inside the nozzle so that it would remain stuck in there, pressing against the wire siding of the nozzle and the release pin.

Turning to face Dean, Sam nodded his head and they started to head toward the left tire. But a moment later, before they had taken three couched steps to the left, Sam felt his brother's arm latch onto his shoulder and yank him to the ground. The brothers landed on the ground almost simultaneously. Tilting his head up, Sam could see the other inmates were being shoved aside, parted like the Red Sea…that was if Dylan was Moses.

"Sorry, boss, I tripped right into them," Dean confessed in his best good ole boy tone, his head tilted up to the man towering over them. "Sometime I am just so clumsy," he drawled a big goofy smile on his face. But a moment later he gave a low growl in his throat as Dylan's foot pressed against his right hand, the pressure increasing with each second. Amid his pain, Dean sensed movement beside him. Blindly he sent his left hand searching for Sam. Connecting with the solid muscle that was his brother, Dean latched onto Sam's arm and pinned the appendage to the ground, his gesture emphatically ordering Sam to stay down, to stay out of it. But the next second, when he squeezed Sam's arm forcefully, it was all about channeling the pain, of remembering why he couldn't recklessly retaliate against the torture Dylan was delivery, of what he would endanger if his ego stepped into the ring.

Having to reroute his strength, Dean dropped his head to the ground, let his chin press into the dirt. He hated how rasping his words were, "I can't dig one handed. Could without the shovel I guess. One pawed like a dog." Somehow Dylan made the departure of his boot hurt as badly as its presence. Groaning, Dean pulled his now freed hand under his chest, protecting it from further harm like an animal did an injured limb. Then a large hand settled on his head, it's pressure grinding his chin down into the dirt.

"Yesterday, I have to admit, you kinda amused me," Dylan drawled, crouching down beside Dean, his eyes flickering to Sam before settling back on Dean. "But today, I'm not feeling that way. Today," and he increased the pressure he had on Dean's head, "Today, I'm thinking we should pick up where I interrupted things yesterday. You getting buried alive, your brother here watching, maybe joining you this time."

"I live to serve, man. Digging I'm good at, probably the best," Dean countered with a mixture of sarcasm and cockiness, knowing that this wasn't the time to beg, that Dylan wasn't looking for that, not today.

"So I've heard," Dylan seemed to purr. "Grave desecration. Gotta say I'm intrigued. You hoping to dig for buried treasure there too?" And Dean wanted to growl as laughter erupted from the audience to his humiliation. It made him almost glad he couldn't raise his head to see the expressions of the watching inmates.

It was Sam who gave a reply. "You'd be surprised what people want buried with them. Not everyone believes in the "you can't take it with you" idea." Sam hoped he sounded convincing, that the look he seared into Dylan was steady, revealed some mercenary gleam.

Sliding his hand from Dean's head only to give the older Winchester's head a playful slap, Dylan shook his head at Sam. "You guys bring an all-time low to the ranks of convicts I've dealt with. But hey, you're not here for your morals, right?" his question rhetorical as he stood up, ordered one of the guards to get them on their feet and to work and then he walked away.

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"Dean, what the heck?!" Sam growled, halting his work to glare at his brother and wipe off the shovel load of dirt that his brother had just sloshed into his chest.

"You're the one that moved your hand!" Dean accused a matching glare in his own eyes as he leaned on the shovel, glad for a moment's reprieve from the work even if it was to engage in a yelling match with Sam.

"Yeah, that's how shoveling works! It's a two handed process, Dean," Sam heatedly pointed out, the sweat soaking his back. The work and the fact that he and Dean were handcuffed together corroding his composure. Plus there was ego bruising frustration simmering in him. He and Dean were _experts_ at digging, at working side by side without injury, without smacking shovels into each others heads or shoveling dirt into the each others faces! It shouldn't matter that a chain linked their wrists together, but it did, had resulted in shovels into shins and dirt landing, not topside, but on one of them.

"This isn't working!" Dean proclaimed and Sam gave him a bug eyed reaction of '_yeah I figured that out already, Eistein_.' Rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand, Dean looked away, tried to stamp down his own frustration and anger, tried to not direct either of it at Sam, who didn't deserve that from him. Exhaling, Dean dropped his head and shook his head before looking to Sam. "We have to get the rhythm down, dig and toss at the same time."

"Fine," Sam mumbled out in agreement but made no move to start shoveling again because, crap, hadn't that been what they were trying to do for the past hour!

Dean couldn't help smiling at Sam's sullen expression. The kid had never grown out of that and where it had once been an irritation, Dean now found it endearing. '_Sammy, Sammy. The things I do for you._' Stepping closer to Sam he lowly said, "We have to sing."

"What?!" Sam loudly exclaimed, confusion and worry on his face. '_Great! Dean has heat stroke or is delirious or ..' _

"Shhhh!" Dean ordered, "Keep your voice down!" Knowing that Sam's exclamation had garnered attention, Dean, to appear hard at work, started loading his shovel with dirt. "Geez, Sam! What are you?! Five?! Still in that stage of yelling everything?"

"I didn't…" but Sam dropped his voice at Dean's raised eyebrows. "I wasn't yelling."

Dean snorted in reply and sent his load of dirt topside, causing the chain that linked him to Sam to swing back and further even as he felt the metal cuff dig into his wrist. Seeing Guard Bill looking at him, Dean gave a cocky smile and a jerk of his chin to the ex-soldier who had been so keen on burying him alive. Anger sparked in the man's eyes but he turned on his heel and left the field of battle.

His eyes focused on the dirt he was loading on his shovel, Dean said under his breath, "That's what they did on the old chain gangs, they sang to stay in rhythm." When Sam made no reply, Dean chanced a look to his brother and found an astonished look on his baby brother's features. "What?!"

"Let me get this straight. You want us to break into song? _Here?_! What like 'I've been working on a railroad'!" Sam asked incredulously. Noticing a guard walking toward them, he again took up the task of shoveling.  
"No! Not that song!" Dean shot back, anger in his tone. "One of those military songs dad taught us."

"Like…America the beautiful?" Sam couldn't help cracking back, earning him a heated glare from Dean's dark eyes that he was surprised wasn't followed by a shovel load of dirt to his face.

"No, moron. Their running songs or chants or whatever. You know…that one about the guy getting a letter in the mail…." Now there was some vulnerability in Dean's eyes, as if he were revealing something personal, private.

"Alright," Sam conceded softly, halting his work to line up shoulder to shoulder with his brother. With Dean's nod of head he dug his shovel in the dirt at the same time Dean did and they began to sing lowly, "Got a letter in the mail," their voices in synch as their shovels sent dirt topside in tangent before landing again back into the dirt underfoot. "Go to war or go to jail," and another dual shovel load was tossed out of the ditch, "Got a letter in the mail, in the earlier morning dawn," and the brothers couldn't help sharing a smile as the work they knew so well was again easy, was once again binding them together instead of tearing them apart. And after awhile the words were unnecessary. They had found the rhythm that had always existed between them, that had kept their steps side by side since puberty, that ensured that, wherever they were going, they were going to end up there together.

"So how's the hand?" Sam casually asked as if the question hadn't been on the tip of his tongue for the entire time they had been digging. Even as he voiced his concern, Sam chided himself for choosing the coward's path, for letting his real concerns about Dean's more serious health issues go unsaid, for not bringing up the implications of Dylan's knowledge about their criminal past.

"It has a size thirteen boot impression in it but it's still functional," Dean answered, wincing from pain that didn't originate from his abused hand as he tossed another load of dirt topside. But he was glad to find the going easier now that whatever evil the wolf's claw wound had wracked on his body was gone. Giving a small laugh, he repeated his brother's earlier words, "'You can't take it with you'…I loved that."

"Hey, I did the best I could," Sam shot back, loading the shovel with dirt, eyes shooting to his brother's profile.

"I'm not criticizing," Dean denied.

"Sounds like you are," Sam grumbled, allowing some of the dirt to slide off his shovel on its travels to pelt Dean.

"Hey!" Dean growled wiping dirt off his chest. "Don't be so sensitive, Sammy." Silence fell as they set to work again.

It was an hour later before Dean stood up and leaned on his shovel, breathing heavy, arm unconsciously pressing against his ribs. "So how's the tire look? Can you see from here?" his breath coming out loud, his chest heaving, leaving him wincing at the motion.

"Sorry, I don't have my bionic eye in today Dean," Sam quirked back, wiping the sweat from his brow with his arm.

"Someone's cranky," Dean sallied back, eyes skipping to the guards that lined both sides of the ditch, none of whom were very interested in the Winchesters.

"Yeah, well…I am," Sam admitted, his doubt reflected in the look he gave to Dean.

For a moment, Sam's underlining fear threw Dean for a loop, made him return silence for his brother's words. Then Dean marshaled his reserves and delivered a big brotherly look of assurance to Sam. "We're gonna be fine, Sam. We'll get out."

"Dean…I…I don't know. Dylan's here and …" Sam didn't want to seem weak but fear had begun gnawing at the wall of his conviction, especially in light of Dylan's menacing presence.

"I figured he would be. Doesn't change anything," Dean stated, beginning to shovel again. At his side, his brother followed his lead.

Leaning closer to Dean as he dug the shovel into the ground, Sam hissed, "He'll order them to shoot."

"They were gonna shoot at us even without his orders," Dean calmly retorted.

"He'll order them to shoot to _kill_, Dean. Not wound, not maim, but kill," Sam's voice peaking even in its whispered state.

"Ah they are probably bad shots anyway," Dean nonchalantly refuted.

"They are ex-military….like Dad was," Sam pointed out, knowing that Dean wouldn't brush this off, that he respected their father's military time, held military men, the service they had done, in high regard.

Turning to Sam, making eye contact, Dean lowly asserted, "Yeah and most 'em of have trained for what? Ten years? Tops? Sammy, we have twenty three years of training under our belts and none of it was doing peace time maneuvers." Then with a smug smile he declared, "In the scheme of things, we outrank them."

"Dylan too?" Sam challenged.

"Well…" Dean stammered, eyes shifting from their bold hold on Sam's.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Sam grumbled, throwing the shovel of dirt topside with frustration.

Leaning closer to Sam, so that his words wouldn't carry, unaware that his proximately calmed Sam more than any words he spoke ever would, Dean reassured, "Don't worry, if Dylan becomes a roadblock I have an idea how to handle him."

"You with ideas? Why does that scare me?" Sam shot back but hope again was replacing the worry in his eyes.

"Because you're a girl." Loading his shovel again, Dean shot a smirk over his shoulder at Sam, "Now keep digging. I haven't found that arrow head you promised me yet."

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When lunch break was called, the brothers sat topside, eating their ham and cheese sandwiches with vigor though the bread was dried out and no mayo or butter graced the concoction. Inconspicuously, Sam leaned back, his vision skimming around the guards to see the huge truck nestled between the two pickups, squinting to see if he could detect the state of the truck's tire. When a guard stepped into his view, he scowled and turned back to Dean's raised eyebrows. "I don't know, it might be getting low."

"Might be?" Dean repeated in frustration, trying to grab his own look at the truck but only getting a full view of the guards from his vantage point. "Sam, 'might be getting low' and 'flat' could make the difference between us '**dead**' or '**ollie ollie oxen free**.'"

"Yeah, I got that, Dean. Want do you want me to do? Ask if I could go over there, kick the tire of the truck?" Sam shot back, voice pitched low, dark eyes on his brother.

"Flippancy, I like it," Dean announced with pride in his eyes and a smile turning up his lips.

"Dad never did," Sam muttered, sorrow and regret hued his sullen words.

"Sure he did.." at Sam's raised eyebrows of disagreement, Dean smiled, "when we directed it at anyone but him."

Sam couldn't help smiling at that, nodding his head in agreement. But a second later, worry shadowed his eyes as they fixed on Dean and he pitched his voice low as he began to ask, "So you really think this is gonna …." But his attention was snagged by the sight behind Dean.

Shifting around to see what had evoked that crease in Sam's brow, Dean saw that one of the older inmates, who was sporting thinning grey hair and a raggedy beard, was standing toe to toe with Chase, inmate and guard's eyes boring into each other. Intrigued by this show of defiance not seen before in the inmates, Dean turned more fully around to watch the byplay.

"You're not pulling your weight, Styer. You're slow, your walls aren't holding…" Chase hissed, his breath hitting the inmate's face.

"Well, go ahead and tell my parole board," the inmate, Styer, snarled before he let out a bark of bitter laughter escape. "Oh, yeah, right. My parole review was supposed to happen two months ago. I'm curious, Chase. Does the prison think I'm dead? Or maybe you or Dylan convinced the parole board that I like being on this field trip better than I would like being out on parole?"

Without warning, Chase slammed the end of his rifle into Styer's thigh. With a cry of pain, the older inmate crumpled to the ground as his leg folded under him. When the felled inmate looked up, he was greeted with the sight of Chase's rifle muzzle three inches from his nose. "Go ahead. Finish it. You and I both know that you're not letting me go, any of us go and you sure aren't cutting us in for any of the profits."

"Profits? Why this is all about reforming your soul, Styer," Chase drawled in sarcastic denial, a dangerous smile turning up his lips. "Course you might be a lost cause. Maybe it's time you took a one way trip to the infirmary. That would be ironic, considering you're the one that dug the pit. Be kinda like you dug your own grave…you just didn't know it at the time."

"Right, go the easy way because you're not man enough to pull the trigger, are you?" Styer provoked, surrendering to his fate, even anticipating it.

"Crap," Dean cursed under his breath, watching as Chase's finger began flexing on the trigger. Instinctively Dean surged to his feet, started to cross the distance to the two combatants, hoping to intervene before there was bloodshed. But he was brought to a brutal halt by the tether on his wrist, which sent his feet skidding on the loose dirt underfoot. Hopelessly, he sought to latch onto something to steady himself. Resigned to the fact that he was going down, he threw out his hand to try and break his fall. Instead of connecting with the ground, his hand fell upon the hard planes of Sam's chest.

By his hold on his brother's elbow and waist, Sam pulled Dean upright. "Sorry," he apologized, angry that he hadn't predicted Dean's move, had instead sat there and nearly been the cause for Dean landing on the ground, again. Seeing Dean wince at his tight grip, Sam, when he was certain Dean was going to keep his feet, eased his hold on his brother. Noting that his brother's eyes were not on him, were fixed firmly on the interlocked opponents, Sam knew, with dread, that whatever intervention his brother had been about to make wasn't going to be abandoned.

Pushing off of Sam, Dean, trusting that Sam would follow his lead, took the three steps forward to stand beside Chase and the downed man. Three other guards were now circling the fight, hands on their guns, ready to intervene in their own twisted fashion. Looking to Chase's profile, watching his clenched jaw, Dean knew that he had to step lightly.

"Styer doesn't know you too well, huh?" Dean said to Chase, scratching his head with his right hand as if he was having a nice conversation across a bar table. "Guy's apparently never been in the thick of a firefight, never known what it's like to either become a killer or lay down and die. See me, I know you could pull the trigger. I don't have any doubts."

Chase blinked at that, shot Dean a quick glance.

Dean crouched down beside Styer, ignored Chase and his rifle and the chain that linked him to Sam, who remained standing. Meeting Styer's eyes as they flickered to him, Dean shook his head. "Dude, you don't want to die, right? Cause Chase here will take you out without blinking an eye, won't lose one moment of sleep over it. Man, that should piss you off! And as far as the other route… hey, I'm the guy they started to bury yesterday, so take my word for it that it sucks, alright. Whatever crap that's happening here, it's better than cashing everything in, it's better than letting them win. So what do you say?" Dean offered his hand to the downed man, watched as the man's eyes slid to Chase's.

Looking up to Chase, Dean pointed out, "I've seen more than my share of corpses and not a single one of them pulled his weight in work."

With a curse, Chase raised his rifle, rested it against his shoulder and walked away, shoving through the gathered guards. Swiveling his look again to Styer, Dean gave a cocky smile, "No one's impervious to my charm." Finding his hand gripped tightly, Dean helped the older inmate to his feet, was proud to see Sam latching onto the man's arm when he swayed before his leg could take his full weight.

"Thanks," Styer offered, a wariness in his eyes mixing with his gratitude as he studied Dean.

"Any enemy of Chase's is a friend of mine," Dean said with a smile, gave a nod of his head and started walking back to where his unfinished lunch waited for him.

Using his long legs to catch up easily with Dean, Sam hissed, "That was so _stupid_, Dean! Maybe I should be asking you if you want to die?! Chase doesn't need any more provocation to want you dead.

"Nah, he's warming up to me," Dean drawled, dropping down to the ground again beside his meager lunch.

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed, towering over his seated brother. "That was reckless and you know it, Dean! You put your life in jeopardy just to…"

In reaction, Dean swung his look up to his brother, sent his words cutting across his brother's like a precision stroke of a scalpel, right to the heart of what drove him. "We save people, Sam. That's what we do. That's what I do." But Dean could see the set to Sam's jaw, the protest in his look, knew that the family motto wasn't going to be enough said to get his brother to see his point of view. "I wasn't going to just sit here and watch Chase put a bullet in the guy's skull. And I sure wasn't going to watch them bury him alive, Sam," he declared, steel in his tone and resolve in his eyes.

Instantly Sam's chest restricted. "You mean like I did yesterday," he quietly returned, shifting on his feet, guilt stooping his shoulders.

"Not what I meant, dumbbehind," Dean growled, giving a yank on the chain that linked him to Sam, as he ordered, "Sit down, Godzilla, you're blocking the sunlight."

With a sigh, Sam sank down to sit Indian style beside Dean, "Dean I tried…" his eyes beseeching Dean to understand, to forgive him his failure.

"You think I don't know that you did everything you could to protect me?!" Dean demanded incredulously, eyebrow raised as he lanced his look into his little brother. "Because I do know that, Sam. Just like I know there was nothing you could have done to stop it."

Swallowing, Sam shook his head, stammered, "I could have…"

"What tough guy?! Taken on eight armed men?!" Dean pressed, voice and blood pressure rising at even the prospect of the dangers Sam would have had to face to save him from the pit. "Then what?! You would have carried my unconscious carcass fifteen miles through the woods?! Course after that you would have highjacked a car on that highway that probably gets traffic once every five hours?! Dude, the odds were against me…us," he amended at the jump in Sam's jaw. "Us, I meant us, against _us_."

Leveling Dean with one of his lawyer stares, that one that tried to weasel the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth from his older brother, Sam countered, "But the odds are with _us_ today, huh? The planets are aligned and the quarter moon is in the right section of the sky, right?"

"I don't know about the planets or the moon, but the odds…" Dean bestowed one of his cocksure smiles on Sam, "they are definitely in our favor."

"Dean," Sam pleaded for his brother to see reason.

"No, really, this plan, it's good, Sam. It's not MacGyver worthy or anything, more meat and potatoes like Jim Rockford would do but it'll do the job," Dean insisted with a blitheness and a confidence that Sam couldn't help shaking his head at, even as a smile pulled onto his lips. Darn big brothers and their ability to seem like super heroes.

"Do I need to point out that Jim Rockford was an ex-convict, an ex-convict who did his full stint, never broke out, served his full sentence," Sam said, fighting laughter.

"Alright, bad example," Dean admitted.

"Back to the pit, boys," one of the guards bellowed to the inmates scattered on both sides of the septic trenches.

Stuffing the last piece of his sandwich in his mouth, Dean stood up, found that Sam was already up, waiting for him. "Okay, let's dig some dirt!" he enthusiastically said, nodding his head toward the septic line.

Sighing at his brother's antics, Sam matched Dean's pace but when they reached the edge of the ditch, he snagged his brother's arm as they made the leap down into the hole. Only when he was certain Dean was able to keep his feet, did he release his hold on his brother. When Dean ripped his arm from his grasp with a heated glare, Sam gave a fake smile. "No, really, don't thank me for my help or my concern," he mumbled.

"I won't," Dean grumbled as he picked up his shovel but he waited until Sam was at his side, his own shovel in his hand, before he began again the backbreaking work, his motions in perfect rhythm with his brother's.

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'_Crap, this isn't going like we planned_,' Sam cursed from his position on the ground. Curled forward, his head resting on the ground, he tried to recover from the blow that had been delivered to his gut. Kneeling beside him, Dean swiped away the blood from his split lip.

'_This is going just like I planned_,' Dean gloated in silence. Struggling to not let his eyes glimmer with that briar rabbit cockiness, he raised his head, met Dylan's eyes even as he squinted against the afternoon sun that blazed over the towering man's shoulder. "I never made it this far before on your work schedule, so I wasn't sure what events were lined up for the afternoon shift. Is this the three o'clock beating? Is it a group event or just for a chosen few?" Dean wisecracked, offering up a close mouthed smile.

"Listen we aren't looking for trouble, we're doing what you want us to," Sam placated, shooting his brother a reprimanding glare.

Nodding his head, Dylan gave a quiet sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, right, not looking for trouble." Shifting his focus again to Dean, he tossed Dean's bracelet into the older Winchester's chest. "You musta lost this when you were letting the air out of the tire."

"Gosh, I was wondering where I lost that," Dean replied, his eyes pointedly on Dylan and not on his returned bracelet that lay on the ground, discarded. And most assuredly, Dean didn't look to his brother, didn't need to look to know that Sam's anger eclipsed Dylan's.

Silently Sam heaped curses on his brother head. '_Great, Dean! I'm trying to protect you and you're busy putting bulls-eyes on your forehead. Didn't tell me this part of the plan, did you?! That's because you knew I wouldn't let you do it. Stupid jerk!_'

Hands on his hip, eyes blazing, Dylan coldly reported, "You know, all that stunt accomplished was pissing me off. Nothing else. Nothing."

"Well, for me, that's enough," Dean quipped, his smile disrupted by the backhanded slap Dylan doled out that sent his head snapping to the side.

Dean sent his tongue darting out, could taste the fresh blood on his split lip, felt it drip onto his chin. "Dude, really, is it my fault you're too cheap to have Triple A. One call and they'll have a guy out here, fixing that tire, lickety split," he said, eyes unflinchingly meeting Dylan's.

His large hand coiling brutally around Dean's jaw, Dylan pulled the eldest Winchester to his feet. Dean's skin lost its color under the punishing grip of Dylan's fingers as they sank into his cheeks.

Sam came to his feet almost instantly, stood there beside his brother, fists clenched, ready to run interference even as he knew he couldn't, not here, not now, not yet. Sam heaped another curse on his brother's head for getting himself in Dylan's bad graces again. On purpose!

To alleviate the pressure Dylan's grip was exacting under his chin, Dean tilted his head up. But the taller man, refusing to surrender his advantage, pulled Dean's head up farther, causing Dean to nearly go on his tip toes to keep the soldier's hold from cutting off his ability to swallow.

Stepping closer to his victim, Dylan said by Dean's ear, "But I don't need triple A because I have you two jokers to fix the tire."

"Sammy's the one with all the hot air," Dean sallied back, the pressure against his throat making his voice deep.

"Oh, I think you've got plenty to spare," Dylan countered before he slid his hold back to wrap his fingers around Dean's throat. "Usually."

Dean wanted to retaliate, badly, but that instinct was tempered by something more ingrained in him; the need to survive, to make sure Sam survived. It left him little avenue of choice. So, when the soldier's fingers successfully constricted his airway, Dean wrapped his hand around Dylan's wrist in a reaction more owing to a protest than a struggle.

Stepping forward, nearly between the two men, Sam earnestly promised, "We'll fix the tire, alright," his eyes meeting Dylan's when the older man's look came upon him. Unable to ignore Dean's plight, Sam's gaze flickered to his brother, saw the way Dean was struggling to pull in air, holding Dylan's wrist in a white knuckled grip. Helplessness and rage washed over Sam, triggering him into facing off with Dylan, "You're going to kill him over a freakin' flat tire?! Dean was right, wasn't he? You did get a dishonorable discharge, didn't you? Did you go psycho and take out a village of innocent people? Huh? Start forgetting that you were a _soldier_ not a murderer?" his voice raising with his emotions.

Shoving Dean backwards out of his hold, Dylan spun to face Sam, hand resting on his holstered weapon. "You don't want to know how close that line is, boy," Dylan snarled, eyes flashing as they bore into Sam.

Rubbing his throat, gasping for breath, Dean watched the interchange, struggled to marshal his strength in case he needed to react, had to jump in to save Sam's butt. But Dylan got himself under control, dropped his hand from its position on his gun. And Dean found that he respected the soldier's ability to shut down his emotions, to react rationally, hoped that he understood the man enough to manipulate him if things went sideways on their escape plans.

Giving Sam a parting murderous glare, Dylan turned to Chase, said something that neither brother could hear and then he stalked by Sam, went back to supervising the trench work.

"Come on, pretty boys. It's time to get your hands dirty," Chase taunted, jerking his head toward the transport truck that was listing to the right. The brothers moved forward, flanking each other as they lead Chase and two other guards on the trek to the flat tire.

Dean's delighted flash of a smile did nothing to ease Sam's misgivings or diminish his anger at his brother's decision to implicate himself in the tire's state of affair. Because, though things were going better than Sam could have hoped, he knew how badly things could have gone. He suppressed a shiver as the memories of yesterday resurfaced, of the gut wrenching despair of watching his brother get buried alive. '_Yeah, and I swore I would never let that happen again, never stand by idly while someone sought to murder Dean,' _Sam ruefully thought, fighting the urge to shake his head as he recalled how many times today he had been forced to do just that, to stand there, helpless, while Dean dared someone to kill him. There just wasn't any easy day to be Dean Winchester's brother. And to be assigned to be his protector?! '_No wonder Dad kept such a tight reign on him, on us_.'

As the brothers came to a halt beside the troop transport truck, their eyes met. Just as they planned, the other pickup truck was missing, apparently on its trek back to the compound to retrieve either an air pump or a fresh tire for the transport truck. With the pickup truck's absent and the big truck's tire situation, the other pickup truck was the only roadworthy vehicle left at the work site.

'_We're just too good, Sammy_,' Dean gloated, a flickering of that boast in his eyes as they met Sam's before he schooled his features into a scowl for the guards' benefit.

Staring down at the tire whose rim nearly rested on the ground, the Winchesters looked to Chase, uncertain what the man expected of them. That question was answered when Chase slammed a lugwrench into the nearest Winchester's gut, who happened to be Sam. Sam grunted in surprised pain and doubled over, hands braced on his knees to keep himself upright.

"Hey!" Dean snarled, his furious look unleashed on Chase as he started to step toward the compound's second in command.

Straightening, Sam stepped in front of Dean, making his back a barrier to his brother's advance. Taking hold of the lugwrench which Chase still gripped, his eyes on Chase, Sam said, "We're switching tires, we got that," as he gave a pull on the wrench. But it took a moment before Chase relinquished the wrench to Sam's solitary hold.

"Get that tire off and do it before Craig returns with the new one," Chase growled.

"New tire?! Come on all you need is an airpump," Dean complained at the work ahead of them.

But it was Sam who threw him a glare over his shoulder and ground out, "Dean, shut up!"

Having taken a step forward, intent on bypassing Sam and reaching Dean, Chase disengaged his mission at Sam's intervention, only offered up a barked order of "Get that tire off, now!"

"Yeah, ok," Sam amiably replied, turned around and found himself toe to toe with his brother, his pissed off looking brother.

"Don't tell me to shut up," Dean hissed under his breath.

"I will if you're about to say something that's gonna get you killed!" Sam heatedly whispered right back. But a second later, someone gave Sam a hard shove in the middle of his back, that sent him reeling forward into Dean. Unprepared to take Sam's full weight, Dean stumbled backwards as Sam collided with him. The side of the transport truck harshly stopped both of their momentum. Unmercifully sandwiched between the truck and Sam and with the metal cuff around his brother's wrist landing sharply in his gut, Dean let out a grunt of pain and felt his legs threaten to go out from under him.

Righting himself off of Dean as quickly as he could, Sam called out his brother's name in alarm as Dean started to slide down to the ground. Frantically dropping the lug wench, Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's shoulders, pinned his brother against the truck to keep him upright. "Hey, hey you alright?" worried eyes piercing Dean's, taking in his brother's pale features.

"He won't be if you're not down on the ground in two second, getting that tire off," Chase's lethal tone hissed in Sam's ear, the man's hand gripping the base of his neck brutally.

"Sure thing boss. Changing that tire's first thing on our agenda," Dean wheezed out, giving Sam a slight nod in answer to his question. When his brother's hands slipped from him, Dean stood up on his own, regained his equilibrium and then knelt down. The chain linking the brothers dangled between them as one brother knelt and other brother stood. Picking up the lug wrench Sam had discarded, Dean looked up at Sam, an order blazing in his eyes.

Letting his muscles loosen in surrender, Sam was soon free of Chase's grip. Without looking at the soldier, Sam knelt down beside his brother, watched as Dean fit the lug wrench over the first lugnut on the tire. But before Dean could exact any force on the lug wrench, Sam shoved Dean's hands from the tool and took over the task of forcing the lugnut loose, letting the chain to their handcuffs dangle under the wrench.

"Control freak," Dean accused under his breath as he was relegated to watching his brother work. A moment later, he gave a quick glance up to see Chase walk back a few paces to talk lowly with the other two guards charged with keeping the Winchesters in line. Flickering his eyes back to the ditches where the other guards and inmates were, Dean leaned closer to Sam and whispered, "Two against three, we couldn't ask for better odds."

"We couldn't?" Sam challenged. "They are armed and we're not and the other guards are only a hundred yards away."

"Sammy, Sammy, always the pessimist," Dean taunted, giving his brother an encouraging smile in exchange for his scowl. "Alright, I'll take Chase and you take the other two."

"Maybe I should handle Chase.." Sam began, worried that the proficient soldier would have an advantage over Dean who was in less than perfect health.

"Sam we…" Dean cut in but his words fell away as Chase approached, his shadow falling over them as they crouched down beside the flat tire.

"Come on, get those nuts off," Chase ordered, kicking dirt at Sam, who was trying to muscle the lug wrench forward.

"They're on tight," Sam huffed, pressing his shoulder against the wrench. "We should have an air wrench to get them off."

"We're gonna need a jack…less you think we're lifting the truck by ourselves," Dean said, looking up at Chase, a close mouthed smile curling up his lips.

Calling to one of the other guards over his shoulder, Chase ordered, "Dwayne, get the jack out of the pickup. Aaron, you better come help these girls remove the lugnuts."

As Dwayne disappeared around the other side of the truck transport and Aaron approached the brothers, Dean shot Sam a look. It was now or never. Though he was poised for action, Dean moved with relaxed motions as he reached forward, wrapped his hands on the lugwrench between his brother's hold, pretended to exact force on the tool. When Aaron knelt down beside him and Chase remained standing at Sam's side, Dean knew Sam had won the argument, saw with one glance at Sam that his brother knew that too. '_Yeah, fine_,' Dean bitterly gave in to his brother's wishes, solely out of necessity, of course.

When Aaron wrapped his hands around the lugwench and added his strength to the task, Dean released his right hand from the wrench and sent a right jab into Aaron's nose, snapping the guard's head back. When Dean made his offensive move, Sam simultaneously made his own. Pulling the lugwrench free of the tire, he swung it at Chase. The tool impacted brutally with the soldier's right cheek and sent the man crashing to the ground.

Dean was poised to follow up with a right cross to Aaron's jaw but instead gasped out a "whoa" as he found himself falling to the right, his left arm having been ruthlessly yanked toward Sam when his brother used his tethered arm to weld the wrench against Chase. Landing on the ground on his right side, Dean lay there a moment, watched Chase go down under his brother's assault with the lugwench. Distracted, Dean barely swung his attention to his own opponent in time to slam his boot into the rising man's face. Aaron was unconscious before his cheek hit the ground.

Though groaning in pain, Chase was still conscious, was, in fact, struggling to lever himself upright. Coming to stand over the downed man, Sam delivered a downward punch to the soldier's jaw and watched in satisfaction as Chase collapsed limply onto the ground. Shooting an assessing look to Dean, Sam was surprised to see Dean lying in the dirt on his side. "Dean," he breathed in worry but Dean's eyes were sighted on something behind him. Spinning on his heels, having heard the footsteps now that Dean had, Sam began to step forward, hoping to assault the guard as he rounded the truck but again the handcuffs proved an impediment. Sam shoot Dean an exasperated look as his right hand was halted.

"Crap," Dean said under his breath and struggled to get to his feet, to give Sam as much free range with his prominent right hand as he could. But the other guard rounded the truck before Dean could even gain his feet. Doing the best he could Dean dove forward, left hand outstretched, hoping to give Sam some slack on the chain that bound them.

Cursing at the handicap, Sam gave Dwayne a smile as the guard came around the truck and came face to face with his prisoner. Before the guard could fully process the trouble he was in, Sam slammed his left elbow into his temple and watched as the man fell limply against the truck before he began to crumple to the ground.

Watching as Dwayne's hold on the jack he carried slipped, Dean frantically crawled forward, worried that the clatter of the jack hitting the ground would attract unwanted attention. Dean caught the jack with his fingertips, cursed as the jack smashed his fingers against the ground and simultaneously threatened to bounce out of his grasp. Changing tactics, Dean pulled the jack toward his chest, let the heavy metal tool land against his collarbone in a desperate hug. Amid the pain, Dean rested his chin on the jack in relief when no clatter resonated across the distance to the ditches and other guards.

Looking down at his brother laying on the ground, clutching a jack to his chest like it was a baby, Sam gave a 'what the heck, Dean' look to his brother. Only receiving an exasperated shake of his head from his brother, Sam gripped Dean under his right arm and, once his brother had carefully laid the jack on the ground, he pulled his brother to his feet. "Gun," Dean quietly ordered, pointing to Dwayne's holstered weapon. Deftly bending over, Sam freed the guard of his .357 Magnum revolver and handed the weapon to his brother. Then, in synch, the brothers headed for the front of the transport truck, bypassing the three unconscious guards they were leaving in their wake. Rounding the front of the truck, ready to make the short trek of a few feet to the fully operational pickup truck, the brothers came up short as they came toe to toe with Ricky.

Ricky's eyes went wild even as he reached for his gun but Dean was faster. Raising and cocking the gun in one motion, Dean pointed the muzzle menacingly at Ricky's head before the kid could take another breath. "Don't say a word," Dean threatened lowly but an instant later his gut instincts were screaming at him. "Sam, move!" he yelled out in warning even as he bolted toward Ricky, Sam pacing him. A bullet shattered the truck window, right where Sam's head had been half an instant before.

Skidding to a stop behind Ricky, Dean spun the kid around and pressed the gun under his chin. "Down, Sam!" he tersely ordered. Forcing the youngest guard to be the shield for himself was a questionable prospect, expecting the kid's shorter stature to protect Sam's taller frame was just silly.

Slipping behind Dean, Sam dropped down to a crouch hoping to make himself an impossible target and praying that he was eliminating himself as a liability to his brother. But the chain that linked him to his big brother's left wrist mocked him. '_Yeah, sure, I'm not a liability to Dean. I'm just freakin' attached to his arm, that's all. But Dean likes challenges, right!? And he's said he had a plan for handling Dylan. Well, it's show time, Dean.'_

MeetingDylan's enraged glare across the thirty yards that separated them, staring down the barrel of the leader's .45 magnum, Dean pressed the gun harder under Ricky's chin. "Looks like we have a real life Mexican standoff, here," Dean calmly said. Internally, he was praying that he hadn't misread Dylan because he knew that if he had, he and Sam were going nowhere but to the septic tank pit.

"Drop the gun and I'll let your brother live," Dylan menacingly negotiated as if he held all the cards.

"Funny, I was just gonna tell _you_ to drop _your_ gun. See, I remember that conversation we had yesterday, about protecting the people we love. You willing to sacrifice your son here just to stop me and my brother?" Dean asked, digging the barrel of the gun into Dylan's son's flesh hard enough to elicit a grunt of pain from Ricky.

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TBC

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Well, Ok, they didn't _quite_ make the big escape…yet. But I had a lot of stuff I wanted to have happen in this chapter and by golly, I think I got it in. (Whether it was good bad or ugly..I guess that's up to you all to let me know).

I cherish all your words of encouragement and am honored that you're still tuning in! I love hearing any thoughts you want to share with me on the story so far and this chapter in particular. When I'm posting a work in progress like this one, I really value and, yes, need feedback to keep me on track! Thanks for everyone who's been so wonderfully supportive, you guys keep this story alive!

Like I said before, in case you think things are going to be wrapping up soon….nope, not gonna happen. Do you actually think things would go easy for the boys? (When I'm writing the tale?! Course not!) Hope you'll stay tuned in and enjoy the escapades to come…(get it escapades…escape…Ok, I'm signing off after that lame joke…).

Thanks for reading and for your awesome support!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	14. Unwelcome Hazzards

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Authors note: Beware, there is a spoiler for 'Heart' in this chapter.

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Chapter 14: Unwelcome Hazzards

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"Funny, I was just gonna tell _you_ to drop _your_ gun. See, I remember that conversation we had yesterday, about protecting the people we love. You willing to sacrifice your son here just to stop me and my brother?" Dean asked, digging the barrel of the gun into Dylan's son's flesh hard enough to elicit a grunt of pain from Ricky.

Dylan's gunshot had brought three guards running to Dylan's side and sharply snagged the attention of the inmates and the guards at the trench, but it was Dean's revelation about Ricky that ripped the air right out of every man's lung. Reading the reactions, Dean unleashed a bold smile. His poker hand was getting better and better. "Keeping secrets from your own men," Dean taunted, sparkling eyes clashing with Dylan's furious glare. "I hear that kind of behavior creates dissention in the ranks."

Sighting his focus onto the guards flanking Dylan, Dean deduced, "Guess Dylan doesn't trust you as much as you think he does. Didn't even tell you Ricky was his _son_?! Maybe he liked it better, being able to have a spy in your ranks? When the shrapnel starts flying or the police come knocking…I know who he's going to protect .. and it ain't gonna be any of you," Dean goaded, was rewarded by the guards' slacker grip on their triggers, by their focus shifting to each other in surprise and betrayal.

Sam, stuck hunkering behind his big brother, felt frustration well in him. He wasn't some child to be protected, that needed to hide behind his brother's back, that had to be sheltered from the threat his brother faced. But he _was_ Dean's cohort in crime and he knew a wrong action on his part could get Dean killed. And that terrifying thought kept him immobile, and infuriatingly unable to see the odds Dean was up against. _They_ were up against.

Dean's perceptive discovery had certainly been an ace up their sleeves. '_Ricky is Dylan's son!? Nice that you shared that with me, Dean!' _Sam snidely thought, a little rankled that his brother had kept that particular ace a secret. But then Sam shook his head in proud affection of his brother's finely honed insight. '_Leave it up to Dean to figure that out when Dylan's closest companions couldn't?! When I couldn't. Course threatening to kill Ricky was probably the dumbest thing we could do…if we wanted to live._'

When Dylan took a menacing step forward, his gun unwaveringly aimed for Dean's head, Dean pressed the gun muzzle viciously into Ricky's flesh, generating a startled cry of pain from the younger man. "I will kill him, Dylan," Dean vowed, his voice low and without a hint of mercy, his eyes opaque as they burned into Dylan's. "I'll do it."

"No, you won't," Dylan growled, finger pressing on the trigger, enraged that his son was in jeopardy that he had _put_ his son in this jeopardy.

"I'll do it to save my brother," Dean bit out, his own finger applying pressure to the gun's trigger. '_Don't make me do this! Dylan just stand down! I don't want to kill your kid, God knows I don't! But I will if it comes down to Sam's life or his.'_

At Dean's confession, whatever doubts Dylan had harbored in his soul that Dean wouldn't take Ricky's life gutted out. The merciless gleam in the younger man's eyes and the steady grip he had on the gun that he pressed into his son's throat only cemented Dylan's conviction. Shooting his son a worried glance, seeing the fear in Ricky's eyes, Dylan knew he didn't have any options left. Tearing his eyes from his son, Dylan shifted his look to Dean. Though he made no move to lower his gun from its sight of the man that held his son's life in his hands, he gravely admitted, "I know you will."

'_No he won't_!' screamed in Sam's head. '_Dean's not a murderer_!' But again Dean's words sliced across his memory, "_For you or dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill, it just…it scares me sometimes." _ Suddenly everything came into sharp clarity for Sam. Finally he understood that there wasn't anything his brother wouldn't sacrifice to save him, that Dean would always love his little brother more than he would his own soul, would willingly corrupt his soul to spare Sam's. It was why he offered to kill Maddie, was willing to heap more coals on his own soul instead of his little brother's.

Sam wanted to latch onto Dean's hand, to communicate to his brother that he didn't want him to kill Ricky, not for him! But Sam didn't move a muscle. Couldn't. Not when he knew that Dean's life hung in the balance as firmly as his own did, that it was just as much Dean's life on the line in exchange for Ricky's as his own. And given that choice, Sam didn't waver on his decision, knew in his gut that he would never value a stranger's life above Dean's. Didn't think there was a person alive that he would ever save over his big brother. After all he had almost forfeited…no _taken _his dad's life, had come so close to fatally shooting his own father to save Dean.

Time seemed to freeze as Dylan's words echoed in the space between the two adversaries. Dean could feel Ricky's heart racing, felt the terror spike in the kid, not at his threat but at his father's words. '_Crap! The kid thinks Dylan's gonna blow me away! Gonna sacrifice his life for revenge! The way the kid's panicking you would think he expects to take the first bullet out of his __father's gun__! This isn't going down the way I saw it!!_' Faced with the worst case scenario, Dean knew what he had to do: take out Ricky, shoot the chain on the cuffs so Sam could get away and after that…. '_Say hi to the grim reaper. Hope it's that pretty girl I saw in my nightmare,' _Dean thought, his every nerve was on fire with tension and fear.

In resignation, Dylan uncocked his gun and lowered it, let it hang loosely at his side. "Everyone stand down," he ordered loud enough to include not only the three men that flanked him but also the guards along the ditch even as his eyes stayed unwaveringly on Dean.

"Dylan, you and your three men here, drop your guns," Dean demanded, ice in his tone. When Dylan didn't comply immediately, Dean knew the man was calculating his odds, wondering if he could take him out before he could pull the trigger, harm his son. "Your son's life is in your hands, Dylan." Lowly he added, his menacing threat unchecked by his tone or the coldness in his eyes, "I'm being pretty generous, considering I could ask all your men to drop their weapons. How long do you think it would take for one of those inmates to get their hands on one of those guns? One second? Two?" Dean let that possibility hang in the air a moment before he stated, "This doesn't have to end badly, for any of us. Drop your weapons and let us go and I won't hurt Ricky. You have my word."

"Your word," Dylan scoffed, fury in his stance, disbelief in his glare. "You're wanted for murder!"

"The three men lying at your feet aren't dead. I know how to kill, doesn't mean I always _choose_ to kill," Dean refuted, understanding sharply that his erroneous murder raps were responsible for Dylan's capitulation as much as the reckless notion that lurked in his eyes, in the grip he still kept on his gun, an impulse to risk a shot at his son's captor. Needing to sway Dylan's mind, Dean earnestly revealed, "I don't want to make that choice today but if you don't put your guns down, you're going to force my hand."

Against everything his prisoner's criminal record spelled out in black and white, Dylan didn't think Dean was lying, about not wanting to kill his son…or about doing so if he didn't do as he asked. "Alright! Alright!" Dylan surrendered, his .45 falling from his hand and ordering his three guards to do the same.

When the four guns fell to the ground, Dean hissed in Ricky's ear. "Your's too."

With shaky hands, Ricky blindly undid the holster snap, slipped his gun free of the holster. As his gun slid into his trembling hand, his eyes came to rest on his father. Heart in his throat, he waited for his father's order, an order to either submit or turn on his captor. '_If I'm going to die I don't want him to remember me as a disappointment, more of a disappointment than I already am to him.'_

"Ricky, it's ok. Just do as he says," Dylan gently instructed his son, worry and love slipping through his soldier's mask. "I'm not going to let him hurt you."

Obediently, Ricky let his gun fall to the ground, relieved that his father hadn't ordered him to undertake a vain retaliation. What is more, he found that he trusted his father to save him, believed that his father _loved_ him enough to save him.

Dylan's words coiled around Dean's heart, cut too close to the bone, reminded him too sharply of his own father's fierce protection of him. Dean had once whole heartedly believed that his father was invincible, that his dad would always save him, no matter what the threat. '_And he did, my father did save me._ _Sacrificed everything to do it.'_ Clenching his teeth, Dean fought to shut down emotions that he didn't have the luxury of feeling. His voice was rough when he quietly notified Sam, "We're moving."

Jerking Ricky back and to the right, Dean felt the reassuring touch of Sam's right hand on the small of his back, knew Sam was standing up, was moving with him and the kid. As Dylan took a step forward, Dean's growled, "Don't!" bringing the soldier to a halt.

"Don't hurt him," Dylan lowly said, half in pleading and half in threat. "You hurt him and I'll gut your brother, I swear I will."

Dean didn't make a reply to the snarled threat, only pulled Ricky around the front of the transport truck with his brother at his back.

Stealing a look behind, Sam saw that the pickup truck was only a few paces away. "Go three steps to your left Dean," Sam instructed. When the threesome maneuvered close enough, Sam opened the truck's passenger side door. Shuffling inside and sliding across the pickup truck's seat, Sam raised his right hand, giving slack to the chain that linked him to his brother.

With grace, Dean pulled Ricky back against the truck and sank into the front seat, bringing the boy soldier along with him. Sliding across the seat, the gun still lodged under Ricky's chin, Dean ordered, "Shut the door, now." The boy did as he was told, even as his eyes searched out the window for his father. But Dylan had taken Dean's threat seriously, had not rounded the front of the truck.

As soon as Dean had slid into the middle of the truck's seat, had permitted some slack in the chain that bound the brothers, Sam had deftly reached under the pickup's steering column and started to pick out the wires to hotwire the truck. His brother's impatient, "Sam…" was a distraction Sam shut out as he struck the two wires together, time and again until he heard the beautiful sound of the engine catching. Throwing the truck into drive, Sam slammed his foot down onto the gas and felt the truck surge forward, spitting loose gravel from under its tires.

Looking out the back window, Dean saw Dylan round the transport truck and run a few paces after the truck. Internally Dean winced at the distraught, gut wrenching sorrow on the older man's face. Dylan wasn't a good guy, Dean knew that first hand, realized that the man had, by making Ricky part of his mercenary team, been the one to put his son into harm's way. None of that was on Dean. But guilt still peppered Dean's chink of armor because, out of everybody, Dean knew what it was like to _want_ to be a good son, to stand by his father, to blindly follow…to be _led_ deliberately into danger. It was a path that left no one unscathed, not the loyal sons and not the self-centered fathers.

Suddenly feeling a sharp kinship to the kid, Dean loosened the pressure that the gun muzzle exacted on Ricky. He couldn't help wondering if the kid would come to bare as many scars as he himself did, would pay the cost he had paid to take up his own father's quest, was still paying. The fact that Dylan loved his son…it only made things worse, muddied the water, made the choice to take up the family business harder and easier in the same breath.

Crap, looking at Ricky and Dylan made Dean _hurt_, made him see his relationship with his own father in a glaring, unflattering light even as it burned a hole in his gut of longing, of missing his father as much today as the day he died. Because, for all it had cost him, Dean didn't regret following his father, didn't curse his inability to turn his back on his father's need of him, his father's love for him, though the latter declaration never passed his father's lips. '_I know my father better than anyone_,' he had boasted in that cabin and it was the truth. He did know his father, had known him, just as he knew now, without a doubt, that his father had loved him, had loved both of his sons…more than life…more than his own soul. But it was a bitter realization to know as well that his father's love had never been sufficient to shelter him, him or Sam from the dangers of the choices his father had made… for his own life or his sons'.

Becoming aware of Ricky's shallow breaths and the trembling in his slight frame, Dean gently assured, "I'm not going to hurt you." Pulling the gun free of the younger man, Dean slid his arm from between Ricky and the seat and shifted in his seat to face forward.

Immediately Ricky shuffled farther away. When he reached for the door handle, Dean's hand coiled around his hand an instant later, halting his intentions to jump from the moving vehicle. Ricky's wide eyes flew to Dean's, wondering if he had simply been granted a stay of execution.

"No matter what he says, your dad would still love you even if you left," Dean imparted, his words surprising himself and his audience of two. Doubt and shame flickered in Ricky's eyes, as if the mutinous idea to leave his father had come to him before. Resigned, feeling as if he had done all he could to spare the boy his own painful experiences, Dean tiredly drawled, "Stop the truck, Sam," eyes meeting Ricky's shocked gaze.

Still reeling from his brother's insight, Sam exclaimed, "What?!" at Dean's order, head swiveling right to stare open mouthed at his brother.

"I said stop, Sam!" Dean ordered, voice raised into a tone Sam didn't dare refute as he looked to Sam.

Because trusting his brother was as hard wired into him as obeying Dean, Sam slid the truck to a stop on the crest of a hill, the work site two miles back. Silently he watched the exchange between his brother and the boy.

Removing his hand from Ricky's, Dean lowly said, his eyes meeting the younger man's, "Get out." At Ricky's stunned expression, Dean leaned over the kid and opened the door. "Get out now!" Not needing a third order, Ricky nearly fell out of the truck, barely stumbled clear of the passenger door before it was slammed shut. In knee bending relief and utter confusion, he watched as the truck lurched forward, nearly choked on the dust trail it kicked up in its wake.

Leaving Ricky in the rearview mirror, the truck bounced over the rough terrain. In silence, the brothers exchanged a look across the expansion of the truck's seat. Unable to quite interpret the look in Sam's eyes, Dean quietly asked, "What?" his eyes sliding from Sam to intently stare blindly out the windshield. Tension and fear manifested in Dean's muscles, made his body feel like a ticking time bomb. He didn't want to hear Sam's answer, didn't want to see something slip into view in his brother's eyes, didn't trust that he could endure Sam's disgust without coming apart.  
"Nothing," Sam returned, eyes flickering from the path ahead to his brother.

At Sam's deflection, Dean felt limp with relief, allowing some of the adrenaline in his system to tamper off. "Just get us out of here. I've had enough of summer camp," he mumbled, wishing the truck would be steady enough to allow him the luxury of laying his head against the passenger window or, at least, the head rest.

"How did you know?" Sam asked, his attention again divided between driving and casting looks at his brother. In his gut, he felt that the answer was important, had effected Dean in some way that he couldn't grasp. That whatever his brother had detected between Dylan and Ricky, it had been, in part, responsible for Dean deciding to let their hostage go so early in the game.

"Know what?" Dean tiredly replied, cursing his brother tenacity, his ability to let go of a bone only to gain a new position to latch his teeth into it. Sending a hand up to rub his forehead, Dean railed against the pounding in his head that refused to even give him just a few minutes' reprieve.

"That Ricky was Dylan's son? His men…they really didn't know, Dean," Sam stated in amazement. '_How did you figure out something that the men working with him, men who probably knew him years, didn't know?'_

"'Cause I'm freakin' brilliant," Dean flippantly replied, eyes lancing into Sam's. "I hate to discourage your therapy session, Dr. Sam but we have other things, like _escaping_, to worry about." But when his deflection only earned him a more intense, longer stare from Sam, Dean growled, "And would you mind keeping your eyes on the road!"

"There is no road, Dean!" Sam rallied back even as he returned his full focus onto the path he was forging out of the cleared underbrush of the forest. Hands white in their grip of the wheel, Sam tried again to breach his brother's fortifications, not with force this time but with tenderness. "Dean, I just want…" he softly began.

"Dylan couldn't tell them, any of them," Dean briskly spoke over Sam's soft entreaty. "It would have been too much of a liability, the guards knowing, the inmates knowing. It was his chink in the armor," Dean explained Dylan's motive, hoping Sam didn't realize that he hadn't really answered his question.

"But you figured it out," Sam restated, pride and inquiry weaved into his tone, sparing a quick glance at Dean. Instead of smugness, Dean wore a look of discomfort, as if Sam had backed him into a corner, was asking him for a confession of the heart he was unwilling to make.

Void of his usual boasting, Dean hedged, "Yeah, well, I could have guessed wrong …was just lucky …" his eyes skimming to the side window.

"No, you were certain Ricky was his son. How? And you want to tell me why you didn't tell me that?" Sam countered, an edge of anger tingeing his words because it hadn't just been his life on the line, had been Dean's as well. "I thought we were done keeping secrets from each other, Dean!"

Looking down a moment before he faced Sam, Dean cleared his throat and consciously chose to make the easier confession. "The kid, he didn't make sense, Sam. He was too young to have served in any of the armed forces, was too …soft… to earn the job on his own merits and then when…" but it was there that his words broke off. Sam's worried eyes clashed with his own for a frozen beat of time. Shaking his head, Dean backtracked, "Well I guess that was what got me thinking…"

"When what, Dean?" Sam quietly pressed because he knew that look in Dean's eyes, recognized scarring of some hurt his brother didn't want aired out. At Dean's silence, Sam let his glance rest longer on Dean. He raised his eyebrows when his brother shot him a quick, speculative look, as if he was hoping he would drop the matter. '_Not happening, Dean. We have kept enough secrets from each other and it's got to stop. Now.' _

Seeing the determined set to Sam's profiled jaw and catching the shadow of worry in his brother's eyes as they flickered to him, Dean sighed. "Look it's no big deal, alright. It was just the way Dylan talked to him ….to Ricky …it…." Dean's voice fell away, betrayed him by nearly closing up. "Dad always…" but his voice was too thick, was sending red flares up to Sam that Dean seriously didn't want to deal with right then. Couldn't.

Gently Sam surmised, "It reminded you of the way Dad talked to you," hating that he had to steal his attention from his brother to watch his driving, hated more the flash of anguish that stole across Dean's still too pale face. Dean's subtle nod of affirmation was like a shout to Sam, like an anguished yell that echoed loudly throughout the interior of the truck. Quietly, now without judgment or anger, Sam asked again, "So why didn't you tell me this?"

Mercifully, Sam's question guided Dean back onto more familiar, more stable ground. Drawing in a deep breath, able to shove his emotions back into the box, Dean was once again Sam's big brother. "Because I didn't want to lay that choice on you," he firmly said, unflinchingly meeting Sam's quick glance, unashamed at taking whatever measure he had to protect his brother.

Sam felt that rush of love for his brother that Dean always generated from him. But he refused to let his appreciation for his brother's protection sway him from Dean's own pain. Sam maneuvered the truck around a downed tree trunk as he quietly spoke without judgment, "Choice to use Ricky…to maybe…." He started, because he needed it clarified, needed to tell Dean he knew the brutal depths of the choice he had waged, recognized just what he had spared Sam in not putting the choice on his shoulders, in his hands.

But Dean cut off Sam's words with a gruff "Yeah," not prepared to learn if Sam would say "kill" or "murder" next, to know how his little brother had qualified his possible decision to take Ricky's life. Because Sam's opinion of him mattered, mattered as much as his father's did, even as it didn't have the power to sway him when he choose a path to save the ones he loved. It was why he had brought the Colt with him when Sam had forbidden him to, it was also why he had disobeyed his father's order and instead stayed and fought the vampires at his father's side.

Instantly, Sam felt the walls come up between him and Dean, felt inexplicable _alone_, though he could reach out and touch his brother, was freakin' bound to him by a link chain. "Dean, I didn't mean…" his regret unmasked but he never finished the sentence, was interrupted by a bullet pinging off the rear panel of the passenger side of the truck. "Crap!" he exclaimed, gripping the wheel, he yanked it to the left, hoping to make a harder target.

Swiveling around in his seat to see the opposition, Dean watched as the other pickup truck from the work site tore across the underbrush, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake as it sought to intercept them. He saw the guy hanging out the passenger window a second before he picked out the gun in his hand. "Down!" Dean bellowed and instant before the rear window shattered, raining glass on Sam and his own slouched form. "Guess we should have confiscated their cell phones!" he shouted, before he popped up and got a shot off at their pursuers from the out of the now glassless back window. His shot sank harmlessly into the truck's front left fender.

Cursing the jostling of the truck that made aiming a crap shoot, Dean put down the side window and started to lean out the window, only to find his left hand brought to a halt by the chain. "Give me some slack Sam!" he ordered over his shoulder, fingers wrapping around the chain and giving it a small tug.

"Driving here, Dean!" Sam countered back heatedly, not releasing either of his hands' death grip on the steering wheel. "You know, trying to keep us alive!" The truck rocketed out of a small valley and went airborne before it hit land again, nearly sending both Winchesters through the roof.

Coming down from his levitation act that had slammed his shoulders into the top of the window frame, Dean groaned as his chest impacted with the bottom of the window frame. Abandoning his initial idea, Dean sank back into the seat, muttering, "Well this sucks out loud." But he flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the side mirror. "These guys are starting to piss me off, Sam!"

"Tell me about it!" Sam shot back in agreement, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror to see that the truck was only a few hundred yards back, was coming at them from the right and was soon going to be in line with them. "They are gaining, Dean!"

"Yeah, yeah, I can see that!" Dean growled back as he turned again in his seat and knocked out the remaining shards of glass from the back window with his elbow. Then he hoisted himself forward to hang half way out the rear window, using one hand to brace himself on the window frame, he sighted the gun on the other truck's front tire. He squeezed the trigger just as Sam sent the truck sharply to the right, making his shot go wild and sending him tumbling into his brother's lap. His head connecting solidly with Sam's right leg, he groaned, his eyes slipping closed a moment before he looked up at Sam.

Sam spared Dean a worried glance before he fixed his entire focus on driving. He sent the truck careening down a steep hill at mach one, dodging small trees and rock outcroppings with frantic jerks on the steering wheel.

Before Dean had a chance to verbalize his annoyance with his little brother's timing, he found himself tossed forward as the truck descended. Bracing himself on the dashboard and the radio, Dean barely kept himself from rolling onto the floor of the truck. But the next instant he was struggling to not slide across his brother's lap and out the driver's side door. When the pendulum swung the other way and he felt himself sliding toward the passenger side, Dean, using the momentum, pushed himself off of his brother's leg and sat upright only to unleash a panicked, "Sam!" as he saw a tree looming directly in front of them.

At the last instant, Sam was able to turn the truck, causing the front right tire to scrape along a downed tree in their path. But the rear of the truck slid into the looming tree with an unforgivable force, rebounding the back of the truck. As the truck went on two tires and threatened to roll over, the brothers let out a collective shout as they were tossed to the left, Dean slamming into Sam's shoulder even as Sam's fell heavily against the driver's side door.

It was a miracle of sorts that another tree made contact with the truck, sent them careening left again, bouncing on all four tires down the embankment. Bottoming out as they hit level ground, Dean felt as if he had gone parachuting, without a parachute. Sam wrestling the truck under control and sped forward, noticing that they had reached the edge of the cleared area of the forest, that trees now lined the left side of their hewed out path.

Looking out the back window up the incline, Dean didn't spot the other truck. "I think you lost 'em Sammy!" he congratulated with pride as he gave a joyous smile to Sam as he returned his focus forward. But then he caught something out of the corner of his eyes, looked right with dread churning though him to see the pickup truck barreling at them from the side. "I spoke too soon!" Dean shouted, instinctively knowing that the other driver wasn't going to pull any punches, was going to ram them full on.

Sparing a glance to his right, Sam saw what his brother had. Pressing down harder on the gas pedal, he sent the truck forward, "I can't go left, I can't go right."

"I'm not opposed to straight," Dean revealed, sighting his gun on the approaching truck, on its driver.

"Oh crap! Dean!" Sam called out as he crested a hill and saw what lay ahead, his foot nearly letting up its pressure on the gas pedal.

"What now?!" Dean growled in frustration at fate, but his breath caught as he saw the river, the river that was directly in their path. "Jump it!" he ordered, ignoring Sam's panicked, incredulous, "What?!" as he turned in his seat and leveled his gun at the other truck, for an instant his finger rested on the trigger. In the last instant his aim shifted from the driver's head down to the truck's grill and there were no recriminations as the bullet plowed into the truck's engine. He sent another bullet after the first and was rewarded with the sputtering of the truck's engine. But the truck kept coming. With a clenched jaw, Dean put another bullet into the truck. He gave a whoop of joy as the smoke billowed from the engine, felt some grim satisfaction as a ball of fire blew the hood off of the truck.

But Dean had a bad feeling when the moving burning infernal kept coming, still on a collision course with them. Drawing his focus from the truck, Dean watched as the river drew closer even as he felt their own truck's speed slack off. Facing Sam, he ordered, "You have to jump it, Sam!"

"Dean it's too wide!" Sam refuted, his wide eyed glance clashing for a second with his brother's even as he further eased his foot from the gas pedal. He was unprepared to have his brother's foot crush his own into the gas pedal. "Dean, Don't!' he roared, trying to slip his foot free as he saw the waterway fast approaching.

"Sam we don't have a choice!" Dean shouted, pointing to the flame engulfed truck that was bearing down on them, its fiery death not deterring it from the path its driver had set it on.

Seeing the blazing truck, knowing that it was too late for evasive maneuvers, not blocked from going left as they were, Sam let his eyes fall upon Dean. "Dean, we won't make it! We're not the freakin' Dukes of Hazzard!" he pointed out, even as he kept the truck on a collision course with the riverbed.

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TBC

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Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	15. Bond of Brothers

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 15: Bond of Brothers

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Seeing the blazing truck, knowing that it was too late for evasive maneuvers, not blocked from going left as they were, Sam let his eyes fall upon Dean. "Dean, we won't make it! We're not the freakin' Dukes of Hazzard!" he pointed out, even as he kept the truck speeding toward the riverbed.

"Not if you're gonna drive like a grandma! Floor it Sam!" Dean groused, pressing harder on the gas pedal, smashing Sam's foot in the process.

"Dude, let me do it!" Sam shouted, elbowing Dean and his foot to the side. "Put your side belt on!" he ordered, his tone inflexible.

"Seat belt?!" Dean incredulous parroted back, his eyebrows arching at his brother's metamorphose into a freakin' overprotective mother.

"Now, Dean!" Sam roared, sounding like John Winchester enough to get Dean's reflexive obedience.

Just as he clicked his seat belt in place, Dean saw the embankment fall away under the truck's tread, felt the car leave terra firma. He couldn't help releasing a "Yee haw!" worthy of Bo Duke. And for the seconds the truck hung in the air, Dean knew he had to try this stunt in the Impala. The landing changed his mind.

Arms locked in position, hands wrapped around the steering wheel in a white knuckled grip, Sam clenched his teeth as he purposely drove the truck into a suicidal crossroad with the rushing river. When he felt the truck's tires spinning on nothing but air, it took all of his pride to not scream. His brother's 'yee haw' only made him internally rail, '_We're going to die and he's having the time of his life. Last words out of his mouth is going to be 'yee haw.'_

As the truck arched toward the earth, Sam couldn't help but growl out an "aghhhh"! Because one thing was certain, they weren't going to clear the riverbed. When the truck landed, Sam was certain that the only reason he didn't end up on the truck's ceiling was because the steering wheel kept his legs pretty well locked into place. The splash and slosh of water registered somewhere in his mind before an airbag exploded in his face.

It took a moment for Sam to accept the fact the he wasn't dead, hadn't even broken his back or lost a limb. Instantly his thoughts went to his brother. Shoving the air bag with his hands, Sam deflated the bag. Again able to turn his head, he looked at the passenger side of the truck. "Dean!" he called out in alarm, hands reaching out for his unmoving brother, whose face was pressed into an air bag. At Sam's call, a groan escaped Dean. Scrambling to Dean's side, Sam pushed on his brother's air bag, deflating it. Quickly Sam wrapped his arms around Dean as his brother tilted forward with the bag's absence.

"Hey, hey, you with me?" Sam gently bade, pulling his brother closer to him until Dean's shoulder rested against his chest.

"Mmhhh.." Dean mumbled as if it were an affirmative answer. Shaking his head, Dean tried to put everything back together in his brain. Opening his eyes, he winced and raised his bowed head. Taking in the sight outside the truck, namely the riverbank that lay a few feet in front of them, he gravelly insulted, "Luke Duke you ain't," as he forced his head to swivel left to face his brother.

"Crap, Dean! You scared me!" Sam admitted in a rush of air.

"Why, you thought that I would start speaking Latin again?" Dean taunted with a weak smile that morphed into a grimace.

"No, jerk. I thought you were dead…" Sam countered roughly.

"Ahhhh, little brother does care about me," Dean mockingly drawled, pushing away Sam's arm that was bracing his chest.

"Nope, just didn't want to be handcuffed to a dead guy, Dean," Sam sallied back, taking up Dean's role in his brother's favorite game. The mockingly caustic comment earned him a startled look from Dean that made Sam chuckle. "Come on, let's get out of here before the truck floats down the river." Unlatching Dean's seatbelt, Sam contemplated their best escape route. Seeing Dean shaking his head again to clear it, Sam knew he couldn't chance going out the passenger side, didn't want to contemplate what would happen if Dean couldn't stand up, fell, instead, into the rushing water underfoot.

His mind made up, Sam gripped his still dazed brother's hand and began pulling Dean toward the driver's side door. To Sam's surprise, Dean didn't rail against the connection but instead gripped Sam's hand tightly as he maneuvered his stiff, hurting body along the front seat of the truck. When his back came up against the door, Sam spared a look behind him long enough to unlatch the door and swing it open.

Facing Dean again, Sam was rewarded with a nod of his brother's head. Then he felt his brother's hold on his hand tighten, signaling that Dean was ready to offer him stability as he made his stand among the water currents. Backing out of the truck, hand coiled around his brother's, Sam dipped his right foot into the river, was relieved when it hit the bottom of the riverbed when the water came to up only two inches above his ankle. Sinking his other foot into the muddy rushing water, Sam looked up to Dean. "It's not deep."

Dean let Sam's grip aid him past the steering wheel. Perched on the edge of the seat, Dean didn't bothering gauging the water level himself, trusted Sam inexplicitly as he jumped down from the truck's cab.

Watching as Dean readied himself to make the move to the ground, Sam had, at the last instant, braced his left hand on his brother's right side, hoping to support Dean's descent. Dean's landing wasn't as disastrous as the truck's, but he did stagger forward. Coming up against Sam's chest, Dean felt his brother's bracing hand wrap around his waist. Quickly getting his balance back, Dean straightened away from Sam and turned to face the embankment that they had nearly reached. Beginning the force march through the river, he shot a sideways glance to his brother who was pacing him, feeling the chain swinging between them.

"Almost made it…" Dean allowed, a hint of pride in his voice as he nodded back toward the truck that had only fallen a few feet short of its goal.

"Close is only good in horseshoes," Sam dejectedly returned, latching supportively onto Dean's elbow as they began climbing up the small embankment. Gaining their freedom from the riverbed, the brothers surveyed the scene behind them, the truck stuck in the riverbed, the still flame engulfed pickup truck on the other side of the river that had gone head to head with three trees and lost.

"No, you did good, Sammy," Dean congratulated, giving his brother's chest a proud pat. Looking down at himself, Dean raised his head with a smirk, "And we came out of it pretty unscathed, my shoes took the worst of it but they'll dry. All in all, that was an awesome escape!"

Shaking his head at his brother's typical zeal at just _barely_ surviving life threatening situations, Sam couldn't help but smile in return. "You're crazy, you know that right?"

"Crazy like a fox," Dean boasted, a wide smile on his face.

"Yeah, a fox the hounds are after," Sam countered with good humor. Wrapping his hand around Dean's bicep, he started pulling Dean toward the woods. The explosion and the wall of heat tackled them to the ground.

Sputtering at the dirt in his mouth, Dean looked over his shoulder and saw the remains of the pickup truck on the other embankment as it billowed black smoke. Turning to meet Sam's eyes, he was surprised to see a smile emerging on Sam's dirt covered face.

"So much for your shoes taking the worst of it," Sam laughed, his eyes traveling down to Dean's mud encrusted chin, neck, shirt and jeans.

"Ah crap," Dean grumbled, slinging mud off of this hands while he tried to lever himself to his feet. Sam, who was already on his feet, the showoff, wrapped a hand around Dean's arm and helped him to his feet. Looking down at himself, Dean tried to brush away the mud from his shirt, only to smear it like some kindergartener's art project.

Sam tried to stifle his laughter but it broke free as Dean raised his head and glared at him. "You look like you've been mud wrestling."

"So do you, Samatha," Dean shot back, wiping his muddy hands on the cleanest part of his entire outfit, his butt.

Chancing a look at his brother's behind, Sam laughed harder, "Oh, yeah, that's better. You're a real class act, Dean."

"Keep laughing, dude, because I got all the time in the world to return the favor. Especially with this," and he gripped the chain in his hand and waved it in Sam's face, "making sure we're …." Dean halted and a slow smile lit up his face.

"What?" Sam asked, half in wonder and half in worry.

Pulling out the gun that he had stuffed in the waist of his jeans, Dean sent his eyebrows jumping in childish anticipation. "We're about to get a divorce, Sammy," he announced before he started scanning the area for a suitable rock. "Over there." Sam barely had time to follow where his brother's pointed finger indicated before Dean was in motion, maneuvering through the thick forest, causing Sam to nearly stumble to keep up with him.

Dropping down to a crouch beside the rock, Dean waited onto Sam had taken up the same position on the other side of the rock before he laid the link chain on the stone. Taking aim, Dean pulled the gun's trigger. A resonated click was the only result. And then another and another and another. "No!!" Dean growled in frustration. "What kind of fool **chooses** a six shooter! We're not cave men anymore!" he ranted, tossing the gun aside in angry disappointment.

"Our Colt is a six shooter," Sam quietly pointed out only to receive a glare that could maim. "Hey, I'm just saying…."

"Thanks. Like arguing over how to use those particular bullets wasn't just a laugh riot…" Dean shot back, hands on his thighs as he looked out over the forest ahead, jaw clenched at the unpleasant memories.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …I shouldn't have mentioned that," Sam faltered, feeling a fool for opening up that wound again, a wound barely on the mend.

"We should cover as much ground as we can before nightfall," Dean deflected, climbing to his feet, eyes scanning their surroundings. "We'll head northeast so we come out on the road down a few miles from the turn off for the compound. Dylan can't chance a full blown search with dogs or helicopters or posses with flashlights, not if he wants to keep their operation a secret."

Standing up, Sam nodded in acquiescence to his brother's logic, wishing that Dean would rail at him, at his thoughtless words instead of blocking up the wall between them, switching to his all business mode. When Dean's eyes latched onto his, Sam felt a flare of hope, thought he saw a flash of understanding, of forgiveness in his brother's green gaze. But then Dean simply asked, "Ready?" "Yeah, I'm ready," Sam answered and he matched his brother's stride as they took off running.

Under John Winchester's training, the brothers had spent a lot of time running at each other's side as they grew up. Pacing each other, pushing each other, nudging each other, beating each other, their competition fierce one moment and companionable the next. But when the running was in earnest, meant the difference between being some monster's Scooby snack, it was like they were part of the same machine, matching stride for stride, changing directions simultaneously like the flowing of a river, as if they were linked together…almost.

"Aghh!" Sam cried out in pain simulatanously with Dean as they were both yanked to a halt by their bound wrists. Like a bad comedy, they both slipped on the underbrush and landed unceremoniously on their butts. Across the forest floor that separated them, they lanced glares into one another.

"Sam what the heck?!" Dean shouted, crawling backward on all fours to loosen the chain's tension.

"Hey, I rounded the tree first!" Sam refuted blame, climbing to his feet, rubbing his abused wrist. Stalking back to the tree that he and Dean had unknowingly decided to each pass on a different side, Sam fingered the groove that their chain had torn into the bark. "I thought we agreed that whoever was in the lead made the decisions."

"Yeah and that was me!" Dean hissed, coming to his feet but made no move to retrace his steps to where Sam stood.

"In your dreams," Sam snorted. "I was holding back."

"No you weren't!" Dean accused, stalking back to his brother in his aggravation.

"That's what you always think, Dean!" Sam shot back, standing toe to toe with Dean. "You…" but he broke off. Both hunters fell silent, still, as a sound slipped through the forest.

"Truck," they said at that same exact time, identifying the sound as a vehicle's engine. In synch they broke into full fledged running, legs pumping in rhythm, trees dodged easily as if each other's intentions had been verbalized. Team Winchester was back on track and aiming for the goal, which, in their brand of Olympics, meant getting out with their lives.

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Sam wasn't exactly sure how long they had been running, didn't spare the time or motion to look at his watch but he knew his lungs were burning, his legs were aching and his brother's steps were beginning to slow. Internally Sam winced at the pain he imagined Dean was in, running with bruised ribs, untreated wounds and a dangerous head injury. "Dean…we have to…stop ..for a…while," he gasp out, amid the punishing pace.

"Can't," Dean wheezed out, his lungs restricted so tightly he had to stop breathing to speak.

"You have to…" but Sam amended as Dean's profile showcased a clenching of his brother's jaw, "**I** have to …take a break…alright." Slowing his pace, Sam was relieved that Dean followed his lead, came to a halt at his side. Both brothers leaned over, gasping for breath, sweat dripping from their faces, soaking through their mud dried clothing. But while Sam braced his hands on his thighs, he noted Dean had wrapped his arms around his waist, had closed his eyes as he bowed his head.

Gently taking hold of Deans' shoulders, Sam instructed, "Sit down, Dean."

"Can't," Dean choked out, eyes squeezed tighter against the pain radiating from his ribs.

"Yeah, well, you are going to anyway," Sam contested, his tone uncompromising even as it conveyed his worried concern for his brother. Putting action to words, Sam guided Dean back a few paces and pressed him down to sit on the forest floor, a tree bracing his back. Crouching beside Dean, Sam could feel the heat coming off of his brother, the trembling in his brother's body. He slipped his hand to the base of Dean's bowed head, let it rest there.

Hating the toll that this was taking on Dean, Sam bitterly wished they had thought of a better escape plan, an easier plan. Of course this wasn't _exactly_ the plan they had mapped out. It had gone south, fallen into that grey contingency arena when the other pickup truck had come roaring out of nowhere, had gone all flaming kamikaze on them.

Dean's breathless gravely voice made Sam's own chest ache in sympathy, "Sam…you gotta help me…"

Sam was readily prepared to agree to that plea until he saw that Dean was extending his left wrist out to him. Dean's head came up only to tilt back and come to a rest against the tree trunk. Sam thought he might just lose his lunch at the look in his brother's eyes, the pain, the exhaustion, the calm resolve. "No," Sam spat out venomously. "Shut up Dean!" he roared, his fury sparking between them. "I'm not leaving you behind! Or breaking your wrist or whatever other stupid macho idea you have rattling around in your head." When Dean opened his mouth, Sam shouted, "Forget it! You think anything or anyone's more important to me than you are!?! You think I can just write you off…"

"Did it before," Dean quietly said, the truth slicing into him, feeling worse when Sam flinched at his words. But Dean didn't recant his accusation or shift his look from Sam's crumbling expression. Dean was bred to be a warrior, to fight with everything he had to save everything he held dear. "Couple of times actually. It's got to have gotten easier with practice."

Dean flinched as his brother's fist impacted with the tree trunk just to the left of his ear. Staring up at Sam's enraged features, bared teeth, Dean swallowed before he continued, "I'm _asking_ you to leave me this time so maybe that goes against your independent streak. Is it better if I plead for you to stay, to give me some freakin' time to think," real anger slipping through his facade, the anguish of that last time Sam had fled from him still a raw wound.

Matching anguished anger for anguished anger, Sam snarled, "Get up!" hands fisting in Dean's shirt. But Dean only beamed a cruel smile and shook his head. Pushing his face into Dean's personal space, Sam threatened, "Get up or I'll haul you over my shoulder, Dean!" even as he used his grip on Dean's shirt to pull his wounded brother to his feet.

Being lifted off the ground not of his own accord, Dean struggled to get his feet under him, to slid his back up the tree trunk in response to his brother's manacle hold and unchecked strength. Realizing that Sam fully intended to yank him over his shoulder like a bag of rocksalt, Dean braced his hands on Sam's chest and barked out, "NO! No! I'm not a cripple!"

"No, you're a freakin jerk who's so blind he can't even …." Sam clamped his mouth shut, slipped his hands free of Dean but didn't move back. Instead he looked away, jaw jumping with his aggravation.

"Come on Sammy, don't stop there," Dean taunted, giving Sam's shoulder a push for good measure because his emotions were no longer fabricated, were no longer just visible to herd Sam into making the smart decision. No, now Dean's emotions were on the surface because they were real, were too sharp and painful and looming to get back into the finely crafted box that he stored in his soul.

Facing Dean with eyes swimming, Sam shook his head, gave that flash of his sad smile, "You really think leaving you is easy?" his voice barely audible, his tone drenched in sorrow and regret.

"You and Dad made it a national sport. So yeah, I know it was easy," Dean said darkly, Sam's wounded look escalating his anger instead of defusing it.

"How can you read other people so well and be so blind about the people who care about you!" Sam voice rose as his emotions got the best of him.

"Let me guess, you left me for my own good, Dad left me for my own good. Well, hey, thanks for making the sacrifice," Dean snidely said, walking past Sam.

Snagging onto Dean's arm, Sam spun his brother around to face him. "No, alright!" he confessed, his eyes dark with something akin to regret. "I left for college for my own reasons, for me, to get what I wanted."

"Honesty at last," Dean retorted, hands going out wide as he circled his brother.

"But it didn't mean…" Sam tried to explain, to make Dean see that his decision to leave had been hard, had hurt like nothing else in his life ever had.  
"What? That you didn't cry into your pillow 'cause you were all alone …that you didn't miss me…" Dean sneered, daring Sam to make that claim.

Pointing his finger menacing at Dean, Sam accused, "You criticize me for feeling things, Dean, in the same breath that you accuse me of not feeling anything! I did miss you! And I was freakin' lonely and …."

"You made your choice!" Dean thundered back, stepping forward, crowding Sam. "You chose to stop answering my phone calls, you chose to not talk to Dad…you chose to go it alone, to track down the other psychics without me. To you and Dad, I've always been your freakin' backup…not your partner. And neither one of you has ever been my partner, have you?"

"Dean I…" Sam stammered, caught off guard by the insight he honestly wasn't certain was wrong.

"We're moving out," Dean growled, yanking on the chain like Sam was a dog he was taking for a walk.

Sighing, Sam bowed to his brother's authority and began running at his brother's side, knowing that further protests or pointing out that Dean was pushing himself too hard was futile. All he could do was be there for Dean when he faltered, try to keep the pace manageable and pray that they could keep ahead of Dylan and his merry men. Because going back to that work camp… it wasn't an option. Not if Sam wanted to live long enough to make his brother see that, just because he had gone away it didn't mean that he had ever stopped loving and missing the people that he had left behind.

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Sam had thought no one could top John Winchester for sheer stubbornness. But today, he knew his father had lost that title to his eldest son. "Dean… Just… stop!" Sam huffed out, slowing his pace, worried at the labored intake outtake of breath of his running mate, at the flush on Dean's otherwise colorless face. Finally he could no longer smother the escalating fear he felt every time he watched Dean stumble, every time he had to catch Dean's weakened body in his grip to keep his brother from hitting the ground.

In response to his brother's entreaty, Dean gave a rough, defiant shake of his head, purposefully didn't look to Sam. Feared that Sam would take one look at his face, in his eyes and _see_… Would _know_ that he was going to fail him.

His own legs stumbling under the exhaustive strain, Sam gasped out, "I can't ….go on. I need…a break!" The claim was, for the most part, the truth.

"Don't….. coddle….. me!" Dean rasped out, unable to spare any energy to look anywhere but forward, to the goal he couldn't see. It took everything he had to keep his feet in motion, to shuffle them along the forest floor, to not just _stop_, lay down, and die. And really, none of that seemed like a bad thing right then, actually sounded heavenly, like _mercy_. Would be alright with him…if no for that whole 'failing Sam, getting Sam **killed**' clause.

Somewhere between hearing Dean's exhausted, pain filled voice and being denied Dean's eye contact, Sam lost any tolerance he had for seeing Dean push himself. Cursing, Sam sprinted ahead and swung into Dean's path, to confront his brother's insanity. Because, Sam, he got it, got that they were running for their lives, that the "baying hounds" were on their trail. But he also knew that, at their current pace, they were doing Dylan's dirty work for him, that Dean was killing himself.

"Stop, Dean!" Sam shouted, seizing onto Dean's shoulders with desperate, brutal fingers as his brother started to dodge around him. His manacle hold halted his brother's forward motion as effectively as a brick wall.

Barely avoiding tripping over his own feet in his effort to try to dodge Sam, Dean was defenseless against Sam's preemptive attack of gripping his shoulders, halting his forward motion. Feeling his right knee go out on him, Dean knew that he had no lingering coordination to call upon, that he wouldn't recover from the falter. Too fast for even Sam's lightening fast reflexes, Dean crumbled to the ground, grunted as his right knee collided unmercifully with the forest floor.

Gutted that his grip on Dean's shoulders proved ineffectual at keeping Dean on his feet, Sam frantically shifted his hold on his brother. Vowing that he would not allow Dean to be hurt further, especially by his own careless actions, Sam dropped to his knees nearly in synch with Dean. His hands flying to Dean's sides, Sam braced his brother's spent body, kept Dean from taking a nosedive into the pitiless bed of underbrush, twigs and leaves.

Wincing and swallowing down a groan as Sam's hand pressed against his wound and his hold jarred his bruised ribs, Dean tried to focus on Sam's face, struggled to keep his eyes open, fought the notion to just let go, to accept that he couldn't make it, wasn't going to make it. But Sam could, would. Sam was the last man on the relay, was the one he and his father had fought so hard to get to that finish line, to reach some place of peace. Dean and his father…they were never in the race to win, to feel the finish line ribbon break across their chest. Wasn't in their cards. Hunters didn't win, they only survived to kill again, to hunt again. They didn't seek what they couldn't find, wouldn't deserve. But Dean knew in his heart that Sam wasn't all hunter yet, was still pure enough to find his way on a path long since out of his own reach. Sam would find it…if he got out of these woods.

Hardly able to force air through his lungs, Dean couldn't waste his energy on words that didn't matter. Forcing his hand to move, he latched onto Sam's shirt, fisted the fabric…his brother into his hold. "I'm… letting you …go…like you asked …me to," Dean earnestly announced, finding that giving Sam what he wanted was easier than he had ever thought it would be. Was, in this junction, the only thing he could do if he ever loved his brother.

Sam's face crumbled. "No, Dean.." he brokenly refuted, feeling the bitter irony of being offered what he had thought he wanted. Freedom to walk away again, to slip back into the ranks of normal, to try his best to forget the horrors that lurked just out of eyesight, to turn his back on hunting, on the life he had never chosen, that had been chosen for him. "No, I'll carry you, we'll make it together," he gruffly insisted, because, what he had right there, what he had in Dean, in their bond…he had learned the hard way what that was worth, that it wasn't something to take for granted…or throw away…ever.

"It was the right thing …to do. Leave….go to college," Dean said amid his taxing intake of air, his unguarded gaze meeting Sam's, allowing Sam to see in his eyes that he wasn't lying, was speaking the unedited truth. A truth Sam should know. But just because Sam should hear it didn't mean saying it, meaning it wasn't ripping Dean to shreds.

Forcing a bitter smile to make an appearance on his lips, Dean revealed, "There is only one way….a hunter….retires. I didn't want that….for you." Giving Sam's shirt that he had fisted in his hand, a shake, he declared, "Still don't."

Shaking his head, Sam clenched his jaw, felt it pulse with his heartbeat, fought to keep himself together. "You didn't need me, Dean," his voice uneven, near the shatter-point, his eyes sad with the memories. "You or Dad. I was a liability… to you both. And that…" Swallowing down the lump in his throat, his voice was thick when he admitted, "It hurt, Dean." Inhaling a steadying intake of air, he plunged forward, risked it all. "So I had to make my own way, to see if I could make it without you." The judgment, the anger, the hatred Sam feared was thankfully absent in Dean's gaze.

"You did good, Sammy," Dean praised, an honest, warm smile easing some of the lines of pain on his exhausted features.

Holding Dean's gaze, Sam qualified softly, "I survived, Dean," offering the same level of honesty as Dean had. "It wasn't Miller High life without you. Even with Jess…it wasn't the life I envisioned. Not since you weren't in it, man. I know I cut the ties but….there was only so many times I could watch you nearly die doing Dad's bidding. I thought…I didn't understand…"

Shoving down the emotions that Sam's declaration had stirred within him, Dean gently prodded, "What?" deciding to concentrate instead on deciphering Sam's emotions, at finding a way to make the dejected look in Sam's eyes dissipate.

"I thought you were just blindly following Dad, I didn't realize…You hunted for yourself, for your own reasons, not Dad's," Sam revealed, feeling nine ways the fool for belittling his brother's motives, for underestimating Dean's compassion for strangers, for himself. "You hunted to save people, to spare others the pain you had suffered. I finally get that Dean…" Sam choked out, hating that it had taken so much time, so many misunderstandings before he really saw the truth of who his brother was, had always been. "Knowing that is the only reason I can stand this, seeing you…_hurt," _his tone raw as memories flared across his mind's eyes of the too many times Dean had been hurt, had nearly _died_. "You've chosen this life for the right reasons. And I'm proud of you."

"Sammy…" Dean voice cracked on his brother's name, uncertain if he could say more, could manage to seal away the contentment, the joy he felt at receiving Sam's respect at long last. Of feeling like his brother just might value him as strongly as he valued Sam.

"And I'm sorry," Sam apologized, regret and resolve burning in his eyes.

"Sorry for .." Dean began to ask, confused at the turn of the conversation.

Without telegraphing his intentions, Sam pulled Dean over his shoulder. Forcing himself to turn a deaf ear to Dean's choked off howl of agony, Sam tightened his hold on Dean's legs as they draped over his right shoulder and started again making his way through the forest. "I'm getting your sorry carcass out of here." Hearing Dean's intake of breath, Sam cut his brother's protest off before it began. "And you don't get a say in the matter, so shut your pie hole, Dean."

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TBC

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See, I can be nice and not let you dangling over a cliff (hanger.) (Boy did I have a mean cliffie in mind…ah well there's always next chapter…(grins evilly))

So, I foresee three, maybe four more chapters to go and then this tale will be all OVER! And I'll stop torturing the boys and anyone else still reading this story!

Thanks for the reviews on the previous chapter! I appreciate your support!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

12


	16. Carried Away

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 16: Carried Away

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Draped as he was over his brother's shoulder, ribs and his open wound jostling against Sam's collar bone at every minuscule movement, Dean gritted his teeth to circumvent his agony, feeling as if his teeth would soon shatter under the onslaught. His one hand planted against Sam's spine, the other exacting a death grip on his brother's shirt, ensuring that the fabric would never get that particular wrinkle out, Dean tried in his own way to steady himself amid his brother's hurried pace through the maze of trees and tangle of underbrush.

Dean could hear Sam's harsh breaths, could feel the way his brother's chest expanded, struggled to draw in air amid the exertion and the weight of his brother on his shoulder, lying across his chest and back. But Dean didn't waste what precious energy he had on ordering Sam _again_ to stop, to put him down, on trying to convince his little brother that he could walk on his own two feet. Sammy was in full stubborn Winchester mode and nothing Dean did put a chink in that armor. He was literally along for the ride, Sam at the helm, him in the hold.

'_Yeah and the ship's called the Titanic. Iceberg ahead_,' Dean sardonically thought, his pessimistic sarcasm the only defensive mechanism he had left. All others had been broken within a minute of the torture of being carried by his little brother, though he knew Sam's actions were a labor of love. As Sam stumbled and his collar bone connected forcefully with one of Dean's abused ribs, Dean whimpered in pain, wishing just then that Sam didn't quite love him this much, because, crap this was killing him.

"You ok?" Sam worriedly asked, voice low with exhaustion, eyes unswerving from the path he was hewing out of the close forest as he kept moving. But his hand tightened on Dean's legs, was the only concession he allowed to the despair he felt at having hurt Dean further, the only telltale sign of his rising desperation to keep Dean with him, to keep his brother' safe, alive.

When Sam's trend slid on some pine needles, Dean croaked out a reply, "No," fisting both of his hands into the back of Sam's shirt, hoping to not slide off his brother's shoulder and land on his head. Sam's anguished curse only heaped more pain on Dean because he hadn't meant to give an honest answer, hadn't meant to pile unwarranted guilt on his brother's already overtaxed shoulders.

"Dean…" Sam choked out with regret and sympathy and love, wishing he could ease Dean's pain, could just _stop,_ give his brother a reprieve from the agony he knew he was causing him. But stopping meant endangering Dean's life in far more life threatening ways, meant failing Dean, opened the door to _losing _Dean, and that he couldn't risk. "I….we can't stop," he announced, his breath coming out hard, painful, hand fisting in the fabric of his brother's jeans at the calf. "Not yet."

"'kay," Dean grunted out, wishing it were a more rallying endorsement of Sam's fortitude, but it was all he could manage without the possibility of a scream taking it's place.

'_I'm sorry, Dean_,' Sam left unsaid because it seemed insincere, even unkind in the light of his actions. '_But I'm not losing you. I'm not. I never knew Mom, I let Dad push me away and I kept Jess at a distance but I've never had any defense against you, against what you mean to me. I have always let my guard down around you, because, no matter what I do, how badly I screw things up, you're always there, have always forgiven me. And you'll forgive me this time too. Forgive me for hurting you, for dragging you over my shoulder and hauling you through miles of forest because I can't bear losing you. Because forgiving me, it is just what you do, Dean_.'

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"Stop, Sam," Dean rasped out, agony shredding the last of his reserves of inner strength, his gasp on his brother's shirt slipping. "Please stop," he begged, voice cracking on the plea, willpower and pride deserting him simultaneously.

Knees nearly going out on him as he stumbled to a halt at his brother's plea, Sam felt his throat burn with unshed tears, felt his heart give a pang of agony as Dean's broken voice pierced beyond his strongest resolve. "Alright, Dean. I'm going to put you down, just let me do all the work," he soothed in his gentlest tone, as he knelt slowly onto the ground and leaned forward, sliding his hands up to brace the base of his brother's neck and lower back as he lowered Dean.

As he was gently settled onto the forest floor, Dean swallowed thickly, eyes clamped shut, deliriously grateful to be still, to feel the spiking agony he had lived with for the past hour or so swing the other way on the scale. '_Your weakness is going to get Sam_ _killed_!' all the while screaming in his head, because, though they had heard nothing from their pursuers, Dean knew in his gut that they were there, were closing in, would catch them if they stopped too long, if he..if _Sam_ indulged his frailty. '_Just a minute. I just need a minute to get my crap together,' _he told himself, praying it wasn't a lie even as his heart pounded in his chest with anxiety, with the gnawing fear that he just might not be strong enough to see this thing through.

Comfort poured over his soul as Sam's cool hand came to rest gently upon his forehead, linking them, easily pushing his panic aside. And the feeling reminded him of the time he had been lost in a mall, what he had felt when he saw his mother's face among the strangers', had felt her arms wrap around him, heard her tell him he was safe now. And he had felt safe, had thought nothing was going to ever separate him from his mother again, that he would never be foolish enough to let that happen.

When Dean didn't outwardly react to his touch, Sam felt his panic rocket. Shooting past the level it had spiked to when he had gotten his first sight in over an hour of Dean's colorless, sweat drenched face. "Dean!" he anxiously beckoned, leaving his one hand on his brother's too hot brow while his other hand fisted in the front of his brother's shirt as he leaned over Dean's trembling body.

His tongue darting out to moisten too dry mouth and lips, Dean forced his eyes open, was met with his brother's frantically worried brown eyes. Huskily he offered, "I hate hiking," was rewarded with Sam's relieved laugh and gentle smile.

"Yeah, me too, man. Me too," Sam affectionately agreed, feeling as if one look from his brother had changed the odds they were facing to their favor. Lifting his eyes from his brother for the first time, Sam scanned the forest around them, looked overhead to the sunlight that was penetrating the foliage. "We can't stop long, Dean," he reluctantly announced, wishing to God that it wasn't true, his eyes purposefully not on Dean.

"I know," Dean sighed, internally railing against the agony to come, one hand unconsciously latching onto the underbrush he was lying on.

Relief and regret flooding him, Sam clenched his jaw at his brother's agreement. '_Like you expected Dean would put his own needs before you?!' _ Looking again down to his brother, Sam saw the marked lines of pain still embedded in Dean's pale, bruised face, could see the dullness of the green eyes that met his with trust and love. "You wanna try walking?" he softly offered, knowing that him carrying Dean was deteriorating his brother's health by leaps and bounds. Intently he watched for Dean's reaction for the truth that would lie buried under his protective instincts for his little brother.

"Too slow," Dean hoarsely countered, touched that Sam would put his own life in danger just to spare him some pain.

Surprised, not by Dean's verdict but by the concession his answer gave away, Sam knew that the only reason Dean would allow him to toss him over his shoulder, to again inflict unbearable pain on him was his love for him, his blinding need to protect him. '_That's a two way street, Dean,_' Sam rallied back silently, knowing the course he had to take. "Yeah, well, slow's the only mode I got left. Dude, you need to lay off the burritos."

A flickering of hurt flashed in Dean's eyes before Dean's measuring gaze sharpened, caught onto his little brother's ploy. "Sam…" he began, needing Sam to see reason, to not be blinded by sentimentality when his life was at stake.

Sam cut him off, eyes again scanning the forest ahead, "I would offer to scout ahead, get a lay of the land but …" Dropping his eyes again to Dean, Sam raised his right hand, let the chain that bound him to his brother dangle in front of them like a taunt.

"We're a package deal," Dean said, with conviction instead of displeasure. "We're like …"

Both sporting smirks, the brothers simultaneously claimed, "conjoined twins." Small, quiet laughter erupted from them, easing the tension in Sam's muscles. Putting a hand out to Dean, he asked, his eyes on Dean's, "You ready?"

"Nope," Dean replied even as he put his hand in Sam's strong grip, allowed his little brother to pull him to his feet, to wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. He didn't offer up a protest when Sam's arm remained where it was as they plunged again into the forest ahead. "It's all muscle," he panted out, a few minutes into their trek.

"What?" Sam asked, shooting Dean a confused look.

Sparing the motion to give Sam a cocky smile, Dean expanded, "It's not fat, it's muscle, Sammy. Has nothing to do with Burritos."

Glad for the lighthearted banter, Sam snorted, "Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that, dude."

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Standing, leaning against a tree, panting, Dean looked to the forest ahead before he looked down to Sam who was crouched beside him, breathing just as hard. "Looks pretty tight…. ahead. Time to go…. single file," he heaved out, wincing at the shifting pain in his ribs at the expansion of his ribcage.

Eyeing the "path" ahead, Sam nodded, knew they couldn't make it through the trees going shoulder to shoulder as they had for the past hour. "Be dark in… half an hour ..or so…" he supplied, uncertain what the prediction meant, hoped Dean had a plan.

"Yeah," Dean sighed in worry, wishing that they would miraculously hit the highway before then but knowing that was just a pipe dream. "Sleeping under the stars, it doesn't get better than that, right?"

Sam gave a bitter bark of laughter, "Sure it does. Handcuffed to _my brother_ while sleeping under the stars, now that's as good as it gets."

"Break's over, smart aleck," Dean groused good-naturedly, moving his left hand enough to slightly rattle the chain between them. Pushing off the tree, Dean intended to take the lead but suddenly Sam was on his feet and had one of his long fingered hands pressed against Dean's chest.

"I'm leading, Dean," Sam stated, eyes clashing with Dean. "Remember you promised to let me lead," he pointed out with more gentleness than goading as he slid ahead of Dean, began the journey through the denser portion of forest.

"Sammy the dictator. Yeah, has a nice ring to it," Dean grumbled under his breath, stuck as he was behind Sam, ducking under lower hanging limbs as he shouldered his way among the maze of trees.

"So how close are they?" Sam asked, knowing that Dean's innate instincts were sharper than his own, that his brother could more accurately gauge how far ahead they were from the posse that was tracking them.

"I would say half an hour behind us…maybe less," Dean finally said aloud the calculations he had made hours ago.

"Crap!" Sam exclaimed, expected the news to be bad but this was so very bad. "They are probably prepared to search at night, will have flashlights and radios or cellphones to coordinate the search…"

"But Dylan couldn't spare too many men for the search at the beginning, had them spread pretty thinly between the compound and the sewer lines. He would have had to get the inmates back to camp first, lock them down before he could have any real concentration of men searching for us," Dean said, having already thoroughly tried to second guess Dylan's plan.

"Oh yeah, but first he had to fix the transport truck's tire," Sam pointed out with a laugh.

"And I bet we blew up the truck that was heading back to the lines carrying the air pump or spare tire," Dean caught on, relishing their small victory.

"So the group closing in on us…they can't be many," Sam assessed.

"Only takes one bullet, Sammy," Dean warned, needing Sam to not see their situation through rose-colored glasses.

"Thanks for that heartening point," Sam groused, pushing aside a tree branch, holding it long enough for Dean to make it by as well before he trudged forward.

"Dylan won't settle for trailing us. He'll want to outflank us, cut us off at the pass," Dean said, sidestepping a downed tree.

"Brand us and hang us by the old tree in the courtyard?!" Sam mocked. "Dean, you're sounding like an extra on an Clint Eastwood western."

"Yeah, and what happens to those extras, Sammy. Eastwood sizes 'em up for a pine box, that's what?" Dean shot back, a hard edge to his tone, looking down and kicking away some roots that his foot had snared.

In the act of calling out a smart aleck retort over his shoulder to Dean, Sam unexpectedly found himself pitching forward as the ground under his feet suddenly sloped sharply downward. And whatever solid ground he grappled to land his next step on just wasn't there. Flailing out his hands, Sam tried to latch onto the nearest tree but his fingers simply clawed across the bark. Then he was free falling over the edge of the deep ravine that had been cut across the forest's expansion. "Dean!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the cliff walls, uncertain, in that moment, if his call for Dean was in warning or for help.

Sam's frantic shout snapped Dean's head up, sent Dean's every nerve ending on fire, kicked his instincts into survival mode. He barely registered that Sam was falling before the chain that bound him to his brother propelled him forward like a poodle on a leash wielded by a pro wrestler. Purposefully hitting the deck as if someone had called "air raid!", Dean grunted as his body slammed into the ground, was jerked forward by his left hand, the only anchor against Sam's deadly descent.

Being dragged toward the edge Sam had already disappeared over, Dean desperately reached out with his right hand for anything to hold on to, to stop he and Sam from plummeting to the bottom of whatever hole they had unknowingly walked right into. The tree trunks were too wide for him to grip and the underbrush came away in his hand. Seeing a root to his left, Dean grabbed for it, praying that it didn't belong to some lightweight sapling.

Wrapping his hand around the root for dear life, Dean grunted out a curse as he continued to slide toward the edge. His legs were over the side before he came to a jarring halt, unable to choke down a cry of agony as both of his shoulders threatened to dislocate at the strain of the combined weight of him and Sam. "Sammy!" he called out in alarm, needing to hear his brother's voice since he couldn't see him.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm OK," Sam called up as he dangled one handedly from a chain around his brother's wrist above a hundred fifty yard drop that ended with rocks and a raging river. "You?"

"Never better. Time of my life. Just hold on, Sam!" he ordered, his voice rough with worry and strain as his hand struggled to maintain its grip on the root and his arm felt like it was growing longer under the torture.

"Hold on to what?" Sam called back, knowing that the rock face was hopelessly out of his reach beside him and above him. "I can't reach anything, Dean!"

"I didn't mean that literally," Dean mumbled under his breath, spitting out a leaf that flew into his mouth, which was pressed into the dirt. "I'm going to pull you up, alright," he promised, raising his voice so Sam could hear him.

"Alright," Sam replied, his faith in Dean unshakable, his faith in their luck, not so unshakeable, as he looked down at the drop below.

Ignoring his pain, his fatigue, his muscles' complaint, Dean tried to pull himself forward by his grip on the root, to pull Sam up from the perilous drop he just knew in his gut was there even if Sam wasn't saying it. He grunted as his muscle strained, as his ribs protested and dirt and underbrush clawed into his torn flesh along his side. But it was worth it as he inched forward, started to pull Sam up, knew that he was going to save Sam.

"No!" Dean cried out in defiant anger as the root ripped up across the ground like a discovered tripwire, sending him sliding backwards further over the cliff. Forced to consider letting go of the root to seek another anchor, Dean, sticking with his gut feelings, clung tighter to the root. Felt overwhelming relief mingle with his pain as the root held again, bringing him, and consequently, Sam to another brutal halt. "Sam, you have to climb up me."

"What?! No way!" Sam exclaimed, not even able to conceive _how_ he could do that trick let alone consider the jeopardy that course of action would place Dean in.

"Yes, way! I can't move, not with this root going all hinky on me and not with my ribs the way they are," Dean admitted, scared that his misplaced pride might have already cost them their winning leverage on the root.

"Yeah and me using you as a ladder, that's gonna really improve things," Sam sarcastically challenged, terrified that any movement he made would dislodge whatever hold Dean had on solid ground.

"How's your landing look?" Dean asked, a small part of him hoping for a short drop to a…. what? a haystack?!

"Ah….a little rocky after one hundred yards," Sam admitted, again his eyes went to the open expansion beyond his feet.

"Yeah, see, I'm not liking that, so start climbing!" Dean growled, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around the chain, trying his best to ensure that he wouldn't drop Sam, even if the extra pressure managed to break his thumb, allowing the manacle to slip free of his wrist.

"Dean, I might break your wrist…make you lose your hold!" Sam balked, heart pounding in his chest at the real prospect that he could be the death of Dean, of both of them, just because he hadn't been watching where he was going.

"Whether we go up or down, we're going together Sam. I really prefer topside so start moving your butt!" Dean demanded, lying half on the forest floor and half dangling over a cliff, arms each balancing weight they were unaccustomed to bearing. It made him wonder just how much pressure it really took to dislocate his shoulder…both of his shoulders. "Now Sam!" he barked, deciding now was not the time to find out that answer.

Saying a prayer, Sam drew in a deep breath and then made his move. With a swing of his body, he was able to bring his left hand up to wrap around the chain just above his bound wrist. Dean's grunt of pain reached him, making him grit his own teeth to shut down his fears and swelling anger at the world at large for dumping more pain on his brother. Knowing that he couldn't stop, could do nothing to make this hurt Dean less, he started to go hand over hand up the chain.

The sound of a rifle shot pinging off of rock sent Dean's heart racing. "Sam!" he screamed, fearing the worst, wishing he could see his brother, could see anything but his close up inspection of the forest floor.

"I'm not hit. The shot came from across the ravine," Sam said, uncomfortable with how close the bullet had been to hitting his leg. Neither brother needed to speculate on who they thought was taking pot shots at them: Dylan. Redoubling his efforts, Sam climbed faster, made his aching arms pull him up until he was nearly at Dean's arm. "I'm going to grab your arm, ok?" Sam warned, not willing to unbalance Dean if he wasn't prepared for the weight to shift.

"Do it," Dean agreed, a moment before he felt Sam's hand wrap around his wrist. "Climb onto my back, it'll be easier."

"You haven't told me to do that since I was seven," Sam joked, hand fisting in his brother's shirt before he pulled himself to the right, against Dean's back just before another shot rang out, ricocheting off the rock where he had been. "He's a little too far for the rifle's range to be accurate," he said just to say something so Dean would know he wasn't hurt.

"He's going to make adjustments, he'll get it right so stop talking and keep climbing," Dean pessimistically predicted even as his grasp on the root began to slip. He didn't complain when Sam's booted foot dug into his thigh, but he couldn't suppress the groan as Sam's knee glanced off his ribs on his brother's trek up his torso.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, but didn't hesitate to dig his foot into his brother's shoulder blade a moment later.

Finally able to heft himself over Dean's shoulder, Sam crawled onto solid ground. Instantly he slid his hand under Dean's arms and pulled his brother back from the edge. Stumbling backwards until he was certain he and Dean were both again under the cover of the trees, Sam ungracefully fell back onto his butt with Dean sprawled across his legs and chest. Taking in ragged breaths, Sam collapsed back onto the forest floor, his breath matching his brother's. As they both lay spent in the forest, a sniper gunning for them and a posse closing in on them, Sam couldn't help smiling. They were alive and together and right then that was enough, more than enough.

"So this bondage thing….it apparently has its advantages," Dean wheezed out, arm muscles still trembling under the strain they had been in. With his head resting on Sam's stomach, he wondered if he could move, ever again.

"I don't know which scares me more…that you're right or that I agree with you," Sam countered, his own breath coming out loud. "I'm sorry, Dean. I almost got us both killed," his self loathing coating his words. Looking down to Dean without raising his head, he could barely see more than the top of his brother's head as it rested on him.

"You want to lay blame, then it's on me, Sam. You wouldn't be out here playing Indian guide if it weren't for me and my screwy Latin spewing concussion," Dean parried, earning him a protesting "Dean" from his brother but he cut off Sam's reply. "Let's just mark this under 'crap that only happens to us' and move on, get the heck out of here and stay in the best motel our bogus credit cards can afford, order room service and pay-per-view."

"I get to choose the movie," Sam called out his dibs, eyes still focused on his brother. Internally he cringed at the crappy movie he could guess Dean would have chosen.

"I get to choose the food," Dean countered, eyes closed, envisioning a nice juicy hamburger with a whole freakin' onion on it.

Companionable silence fell between them and neither brother moved, were content to relish each other's company, to enjoy the moment's peace they had darn well earned. Peace that lasted exactly three minutes …until the snap of a twig under a booted foot shattered it.

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TBC

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Thanks for every single review last chapter! I treasure every one of them!

Have a great evening! 

Cheryl W.


	17. Raging Currents

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 17: Raging Currents

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Companionable silence fell between them and neither brother moved, were content to relish in each other's company, to enjoy the moment's peace they had darn well earned. Peace that lasted exactly three minutes …until the snap of a twig under a booted foot shattered it.

The small sound was like a mortar round in the quiet forest. Scrambling to his feet, Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's left bicep, aiding his brother's own struggle to rise. Standing shoulder to shoulder, hearts pounding, breath heaving, eyes searching the forest at their backs for sight of their pursuers, they both made internal calculations on just how close their pursuers were: Too close.

"So much for that half an hour lead time," Dean whispered, jerking his head to the left but didn't move, instead waited until Sam took the lead.

As he led Dean through the trees that rimmed the cliff, Sam felt warmth spread through him at Dean's gesture, at his brother's unshakeable trust in him, even after that cliff incident. But the gunshot from behind which sent a bullet skimming past them on the left, whistling through leaves and snapping a branch, made Sam see his brother's gesture in a different light. Quickly stepping to the side, he reached back, took a handful of Dean's shirt and propelled his brother forward ahead of him.

"What the …" Dean exclaimed, stumbling at Sam's brutal maneuvering.

"You're point man," Sam ground out, pressing his hand against Dean's spine, pushing him forward to ensure his brother couldn't stop and try and renegotiate their roles. '_I should have known he was doing that protective thing again when he let me lead….and left himself to trail behind, a ready target for the posse.' "_Move it!" he shouted as he felt his brother's muscle tense, anticipating making a move to again secure the position of rear guard.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" Dean grumbled ducking as another bullet cut through the forest too close to his personal space for his liking. Pouring on the speed, he pounded through the forest, the reassuring presence of Sam at his back and the manacle on his wrist linking him to his brother, somehow helping him to push through the pain, find reservoirs of energy where there hadn't been moments before. He wasn't running only for his own life, he was running for Sam's life too. And he couldn't stop, wouldn't. Wouldn't be the reason Sam died.

Skirting around underbrush, jumping over downed trunks, weaving through trees, the brothers didn't take the time to brush branches out of the way, to spare themselves scratches on their faces, leaves in their hair or reprieves from the punishing pace. They could hear their pursuers now, the pounding footsteps coming up behind them, the brutal rustle and breaking of tree branches, the low voiced orders. It wasn't like the cold feel of a spirit trying to overtake them but it felt malevolent in the same way, murderous, merciless, relentless.

Somewhere in Dean's mind he registered their downward progression, the steepness of his steps, could pick up the sound of a rushing water source. A source that had more force to its ebb and flow than the river they had almost Dukes of Hazzard'ed over. "River …on …our right?" he huffed out, half in announcement and half in question, barely making the jump over a small downed tree trunk.

"Yeah," Sam replied, hot on his brother's heels. Clearing the trunk with more luck than skill, he wished again that the obstacles ahead weren't obscured by Dean a second before he had to dodge them. "Was on the…bottom of the …ravine."

"Big?" Dean asked but then his foot caught on the underbrush, sending him tripping forward with a grunted growl of pain and angry frustration. His brother's arm suddenly around his waist halted his motion, kept him from taking a header into the nearest tree. Prying Sam's hand from his ribs, Dean again put his feet into motion, heard his brother's breath nearly in his ear as he paced behind him.

"Didn't seem too big… as high up …as I was," Sam answered Dean's inquiry of the river, wondering if he even wanted to _know_ what his big brother was contemplating. As another bullet ricocheted off a tree where his hand had rested a moment before, he and Dean ducked and pushed themselves harder.

"We're not…. going …outrun them …for long," Dean panted, hating to admit the truth but knowing he had to face the facts, had to make adjustment for the impending his failure.

"So?! You planning on surrendering?! Betting on Dylan's mercy?!" Sam incredulously asked, ducking under a low hanging limb and dodging right to miss a small tree in his path.

"No!" Dean nearly yelled back, the scowl on his face lost on the forest.

"Then what Dean?" Sam pressed, his desperation breaking from its restraints.

"Ride the river… let it take us downstream," Dean suggested, knowing even as he said it that it was a deadly proposition, was borne out of despair and dire necessity.

"What?! We don't have a raft, Dean!" Sam returned, wondering if Dean's concussion wasn't cause for his brother's current mental instability.

"You know how to swim, Sammy, right?" Dean misjudged a tree's position, caught it by his shoulder, rebounded off into a stumble, clutching his new aching limb, his teeth clenched. '_Crap I hate hiking_!'

"Ah, yeah,… you taught me how Dean. But swimming and riding …the rapids …doing the dead man's float is two ….entirely different things!" Sam shot back, easily skirting the tree that his brother had tackled.

"We don't do something fast… and we'll be doing the dead man's float …for real, Sam!" As if to punctuate the point a bullet slammed into a tree in Dean's path, sending splinters spraying into his hair. "We've been going downhill for awhile…won't be too bad a drop into the water….probably."

"Probably. Great. Rousing endorsement there," Sam grumbled, trying hard not to think of the perilous drop he had been dangling over fifteen minutes before, of how small and ferocious the river had seemed from that height. "Dylan's probably been pacing us on the other side. We break cover on the rim… and he'll take his opening."

"So? What?! You wanna play… rock-paper- scissors …on whether we do some cliff diving or take our chances… outrunning the hounds?!" Dean groused over his shoulder, though, in truth, he hated the choices as much as Sam. "You got a third option…I'm all ears."

"If I had another suggestion… you think I would keep it a secret!" Sam countered heatedly, stumbling over some underbrush with a curse. "We're not going to have a lot of time…to assess the situation, gauge if we can make the jump. Not once we're in the clear and giving Dylan a chance to take his shot."

"It'll take him some time to realize we stopped, to get his position to take a clean shot." Dean hoped he was telling the truth, wasn't being overly optimistic because this wasn't the time or place for mary-sunshine attitudes, not when the details meant the different between survival and death. "Right?" he sincerely asked, needing his brother's thoughts on this, to know that Sam agreed with him, wasn't just going to freakin' jump off a cliff just because he told him to.

At Sam's silence, Dean gave in with a gentleness in his tone, an affection for his brother's wishes in his words, "Hey, Sam, we won't do it, alright. We'll work something else out, outflank them or outsmart them or double back, something."

Sam felt his chest tighten with affection for his brother, for the offer Dean was making for him, the chance he was willing to throw away because Sam hadn't endorsed it. "Won't work, I know that."

And Dean was going to agree, to admit how foolish the river thing was when Sam continued.

"We won't make it if we don't do something soon. We gonna look before we jump or just go full steam over the edge?" Sam asked, willing to go along with whatever Dean said, gathering enough strength from knowing that they were going together to face anything.

"What? You're agreeing to this? To jumping off the cliff, going all Butch Cassidy-Sundance Kid?!" Dean incredulously called over his shoulder.

"You said they survived," Sam accused, as if he thought his brother might have lied to him about that all along.

"They did? Thought the last scene was them jumping or was it them showing up at the woman's place? So they made it?" Dean questioned, a crease marring his brow as he tried to piece together how the movie really ended, discounting what fairy tale conclusion he might have woven together for his little brother's too impressionable mind ten years ago.

"You're the one who watched the movie five times, not me," Sam growled back, not feeling real happy with the thoughts of going out like some desperadoes in that particular Redford-Newman flick. Rather envisioned he and Dean more the characters in 'The Sting' conning their way out of trouble, wearing snazzy suits and hats. Though he wouldn't admit that to Dean even under torture.

"Doesn't matter, it was just a movie. We're the real deal, Sammy," Dean boasted, needing to put on his game face, to give his brother a shoulder to lean on, a presence to count on. "So we break left, give a peek at our trajectory, then back up and make a running jump for it. That the plan?"

"Plan? Ah no, what we're gonna end up doing, yes," Sam sallied, feeling again like life with Dean was an adventure like no other. '_And I won't trade it for the world, not even for the white picket fence one I used to desperately want_.' "Dean, I…I don't regret staying..with you, not heading back to "wussy state" and trying to pretend I'm normal."

"Sam this isn't the time for you to go all emo on me, dude," Dean growled, hoping the rough texture of his voice came off gruff instead of choked with emotions his brother's words evoked in him.

Ignoring his brother's chide, Sam confessed, "And it's not just about doing what Dad would have wanted me to do."

"Sam," Dean almost pleaded, needing to keep his head in the game, to focus on surviving not hearing some sappy goodbye from his brother.

"It's about us, you and me. What you said to dad…it was true. We're stronger together, as a family. Better," Sam pressed, needing Dean to recognize what he had just recently discovered. He nearly ran full force into a tree as Dean dodged left, led them toward the cliff's edge without further warning.

Slowing down, coming to a halt just inches from the cover of the trees, the brothers' shared a look before they crossed over the forest's threshold and paced out five steps to the edge of the cliff. The drop to the river had lessoned to thirty yards but the white churning water didn't make the prospect of a swim very enticing.

Looking to Dean, Sam watched as Dean drew in a steadying breath then raised his eyes from the view of the water and met his gaze. "We doing this?" he asked and Sam knew then that Dean would follow whatever decision he made here, even if it cost them their lives. Would follow his lead, blindly, out of loyalty, out of love. Course Sam had been following Dean for those same reasons for twenty three years and had always come though the other side. Finding no need to change his ways now, Sam, taking his own steadying breath, nodded and let a smile tip up his lips as a boasting smirk grew on Dean's face.

Pacing backwards, they held each other's gaze, knew that if they were going to die at least they were going out fighting, going out together. And hadn't Sam always thought that was the way he would die, fighting at his brother's side?

"Last one down does the laundry for a month," Dean taunted, eyebrows jumping and then they were off, matching step for step, breath for breath, their yells of terror meshing together as they leaped off the cliff, fell side by side.

When Dean hit the water it so wasn't like the beverage commercial he had seen on tv where a kid swung out from a rope tied to a tree and jumped into a pond, a big smile plastered on his goofy face. Course they never did show the kid's face after going in the drink, never knew if the smile remained. But Dean didn't have to look in a mirror to know a smile wasn't gracing his face as he made impact with the raging fluid. Reminded him of Jericho, jumping off the bridge so that Constance chick couldn't make him a permanent part of the Impala's grill, hitting the water like the most painful cannon ball he had ever attempted, shockwaves of pain going through him, stealing his breath. Almost like now, if you took it to the 10th power.

It took every ounce of willpower he had to not blackout, to not try to draw in a panicked breath…though he was immersed in water from head to toe. When he felt fingers brush against his shoulder, he blindly reached out, clumsily collided with what he perceived was his brother's elbow but that didn't stop him from latching onto the tenuous contact. A moment later, a hand fell upon his chest, fisted his shirt in its grasp and Dean felt himself being pulled upward, toward a source of air if there was any mercy in the world. Head breaking from the water, he gasped in air like a suffocated victim, thought he heard through his water logged hearing his brother's voice, shouting his name above the churning rush of water. He choked as water sloshed in his open mouth, felt himself dip under the maelstrom of waves only to be brought to the surface again by his brother's hold, felt his shoulder contact with his brother's as they were swept downstream.

Taken under by a cross current of water, Sam struggled to keep his right hand up, to keep Dean's head above water even as his own was submerged. When he broke the surface, he got a swallow of water instead of breath, gagged and choked as it went down the wrong tube. Barely recovered, he was tossed to the right, into Dean, sending them both under. Sputtering, clutching onto each other's shirt fronts, they came up for air at the same time, legs kicking to try and stay topside.

Controlled as they were by the raging young river, they couldn't breaststroke to safety, knew they had to literally ride the current until they could get a way off, to inch their way to the left side and pray the river didn't go to its drainage basin soon via a hundred foot waterfall. Simultaneously they tried to maneuver themselves to the side of the river, to use the water's own peaks and valleys to usher them in the direction they wanted to go. Every time they were making progress, the water would lash out at them, sending them tumbling, drowning, crashing back the other way.

Coming up from a particularly nasty backlash of water, the brothers broke the surface of the water a few feet before a rock outcropping. '_This is gonna hurt_!' Dean predicted, knowing he, more than Sam, was on a fast track for a brutal collision with the rocks ahead. Bracing himself for the frontal impact, he was startled to be broadsided by his brother's shoulders and hands. Shoved to the right, he knew he was miraculously going to miss the rocks…Sam wasn't going to be that lucky. "Sam!" he yelled, uncaring that he was nearly drown by a gush of water.

Desperately, Dean pulled on the chain that bound him to his brother. But he wasn't quick enough or strong enough to pull Sam clear. With horror he watched Sam turn his back to the rocks an instant before he was slammed into them with punishing force. "Sam!" he screamed as Sam's eyes slid shut and his brother sunk under the water.

Defying the water's current, Dean dove under the water, followed the chain that led to his brother. Latching onto Sam's sinking body with desperate hands, Dean found himself tossed into a roll under the deeper current's violence but he stubbornly clutched Sam tightly to his chest. Then, when he could gain some freedom from the current, Dean kicked with his legs, praying that he was going the right way, that his head would break the surface of the water and not crack against the bottom of the riverbed.

Rewarded by the oxygen laced atmosphere, Dean grasped in air, spit out water, saw worriedly that Sam wasn't moving, was boneless in his grasp, head falling onto his shoulder. "Sam! Come on! I can't do this without you!" he desperately entreated. Turning Sam around so he could slip his arm across Sam's chest, Dean turned his back to the current, tried to kick toward the left bank, all the while, pulling Sam along with him, striving to protect him from the onslaught of the water, to keep his brother's head above water even as his own sank under the water time and time again.

After the fifth dunking, Dean barely had the strength to rear his head up, to break the surface of the water, to force his besieged lungs to take in air instead of water. "Sam, help," he croaked out, choking again as more water entered his mouth, threatening to drown him. Weakly he shook his head, spit out the water, "I'm not gonna make it, Sam. I agree with you, man. I'm stronger with you, always have been." Again he was submerged and again he fought his way to the surface but with the harsh comprehension that it was the last feat of its kind he was capable of. "Wake up, Sammy. Please, God let him wake up or we're both going to die. I need your help, Sammy. You want to save me, now's your chance, little brother. Open your eyes and help me get us to shore. Sam, please," Dean pleaded feeling the heavy weight of his limbs, the closing expansion of his lungs, the bleak knowledge that he was toeing the line of his threshold of endurance. When the next wave buffeted him, he went under and knew he wasn't coming back up, not this time.

Accepting that the best he could do for his brother was to let him go and pray the current was merciful with him, Dean started to release his grip on Sam, was prepared to snap what bones in his hand that he had to in order to slip the handcuff free. Once he freed himself, he would give his brother's limp body a shove to the surface with the last of his strength. He was coherent enough to be startled when the hand he was sliding from Sam was tightly gripped by long fingers.

Somewhere in the void he was trapped in, Sam had heard the voice he had clung to his entire life, a voice that had kept the nightmares at bay, that had soothed him when he was hurt or ill, the voice that had barked out orders that cut across his terror and kept him moving, alive. But the sound of the voice alone wasn't enough to break him free of the hold his unconsciousness held over him. No, it was the utter brokenness, the plea in the beloved voice that had given him the strength to shake off the darkness, to reach for the light with both hands, to register that the arms around him were slipping away, were leaving him.

Instinctively he stopped that abandonment, clung to the hand that was sliding off of his ribs, was threatening to disconnect when he needed that touch the most. Jerking awake as if from a particularly terrifying nightmare, Sam gasped in air, felt the bob of his body in the water, the feel of the hand in his grasp. Spinning around and not finding his brother floating behind him, Sam pulled on the hand he held even as he plunged into the water. His brother's body was a murky image but he wrapped his arms around Dean's torso, drew his brother's back against his chest and propelled them both to the surface. He used his first breath to call out his brother's name. Before he could panic at Dean's limp form, he and Dean were falling over a two foot drop.

Determinedly Sam hauled Dean and him to the surface, found to his relief that his brother was alive, was breathing, was glad even to know Dean was coughing in synch with him, was struggling, as he was, to draw in an unfettered breath. When he could concentrate on more than breathing, Sam realized that they had been deposited into a calm small water basin. Looking over Dean's shoulder, Sam attempted to see his brother's face. Finding Dean's head bowed almost far enough forward for his face to be submerged, Sam slid his hand under his brother's chin and he gently raised Dean's head until it came to rest back onto his shoulder. "Dean, you alright?"

Giving a minuscule nod of his head, Dean could only croak harshly in place of a verbal reply. He was overwhelmingly grateful when Sam didn't abandon his hold on him but instead tightened it and started doing all the work to reach the bank of the river. Realizing just how close things had been this time, Dean felt understanding grow in him. Sure, Sam had saved him a thousand times before but not like this, had not literally pulled him from the brink of death, from a front row seat to a ten gun salute. He had begged Sam to save him and Sam had, had saved them both…just like his father had reacted to his plea in that cabin, consequently giving Sam the opening to save all three of them.

At last, the point was brought undeniably home to Dean: he mattered to Sam, had mattered to his father, deeply, because what his father and brother had done, the odds they had beaten, _for him_?! It went way beyond any obligatory familial loyalty or the hunter's code to watch your partner's back. Was about a deep rooted, encompassing love, _for him_, not about the role he played in their lives, the duties he performed, but about how they felt about him, about _losing_ him.

To Dean's surprise, some of his anger at his father's decision to sacrifice his life for his own lessened. It was dulled by the sharper truth he could no longer deny: His father had _loved_ him, loved him with a love that was stronger than the evil that had controlled his body, a love that had made him feel that his son's life was more important than his own life, his own _soul._

For Dean, it was bittersweet to know that he had been right: he had never been John Winchester's partner or Sam's partner. Had been something more precious to them, was John's _son_, Sammy's _brother_. And neither his father nor his brother had been willing to put his life at risk. It was the reason his father had blatantly refused to allow him to travel beside him as he took up the suddenly fresh trail leading to his mother's killer, which his father knew could only end with a deadly, practically suicidal confrontation with evil the depths they had never fought before. Was the reason Sam had left him behind, had not wanted him with him when he searched for psychic kids who had the power to hurt him, possibly make him hurt himself as Ansen had been intent on doing.

Sam's worried voice startled Dean out of his thoughts.

With Dean's back to him as he swam one handed to the bank, Sam couldn't see Dean's face, couldn't gauge his brother's breathing. "Dean, talk to me, man," he implored, needing some sign of life from his brother now that Dean's coughing had ceased.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean earnestly said, hoping his battered throat wasn't concealing his sincerity and affection. Reaching up with one hand, Dean squeezed his brother's forearm which was across his chest to offer Sam leverage to ferry him to shore. "You saved my life."

Sam lightly countered, "Don't mention it, was my turn," praying that his aching arms wouldn't fail to carry he and Dean the last few feet to the bank.

"No, Sam. I mean …I don't always…" Dean stammered, wanting to reveal his feelings to Sam for a change, to show his brother that he valued him more than his own pride.

"Yeah and you don't have to, Dean," Sam gently interrupted, sparing a glance to Dean, though all he could view was his brother's shoulder blades and the back of his head. "It's just what we do for each other." Looking back to the bank now almost within reach, Sam gave a tired, small laugh, "It's kinda been hardwired into us, you know."

"Yeah," Dean wholeheartedly agreed, but he couldn't keep the resignation from even that one word. '_Yeah, it's hardwired, Sammy. So deeply that I didn't know how to function when you or Dad weren't around for me to protect_.' Knew that the instinct was keeping him together as surely as it was tearing him apart, was both cure and poison to his soul.

Caught off guard by Dean's tone, Sam didn't have time to decipher it as his fingers finally laid claim to the left bank. When he wrapped his hand around the high grass that bordered the waterway, it was almost insulting that such a small anchor had the capability to stop their deadly downriver adventure.

Feeling as if he had been an unwilling participate in a triathlon that took a detour through a hockey game where he got body checked into a rock outcropping, Sam couldn't move for a moment, couldn't summon up the energy to maneuver himself or Dean from the water. Instead he could only clutch onto the anchor he had found and let himself feel relief even as his arms trembled and ached, his lungs were so tight that breathing was a matter of will power and his head hurt at his every resounding heartbeat. '_White Water Rafting sans the raft so sucks_,' he sardonically thought but it made him give a small chuckle.

"What?" Dean hoarsely asked, eyes closed but somewhere registering that they had stopped, that they shouldn't stop, but luxuriating in the stillness, in the weightlessness.

"I can't believe we did that, man," Sam's voice holding shocked pride. "We jumped off a cliff, Dean! And then we went white water rafting without a raft. Guess they were right: desperate times calls for desperate measures."

"When haven't we been desperate?" Dean tiredly replied with a frankness he wouldn't have unleashed if he had had any defenses left.

His brother's brutal honesty and defeated tone scorched across Sam's weariness, igniting his resolve to keep moving, to keep his brother safe, to make sure more scars didn't score his brother's already battered soul. "Let's get out of here," he softly bade, pulling Dean to the embankment.

With his arm around Dean's waist and his brother's arm around his shoulders, Sam was uncertain who was helping who crawl up the slight incline to level, dry ground. Once the task was complete, Sam fought the inclination to simply lie down, cop out, quit. Instead, he forced himself to his feet, determinedly bringing his brother with him to a stand. Taking stock of their new surroundings, Sam was uncertain how far they had gone on their "flume ride" but noted that the forest bracketing the river was less dense, somehow felt less threatening, less like it too was closing in on them. Dean's raw croaking cough brought his attention to his brother.

Bending over, Dean tried to wrestle some air from his lungs around a seemingly unceasing cough. Suddenly Sam's hand was on his chest, bracing him, grounding him to his little brother as it kept him on his feet. After what felt like half an hour, the raging coughs gave up their hold on him and he straighten up slowly with his brother's help.

"You alright to start moving?" Sam asked quietly, sharp eyes on his brother, hating that he couldn't give his brother the reprieve he deserved. With no surprise, Sam watched Dean's head bob in agreement. But he wasn't expecting his brother to take the first step, to put their torturous marathon back into motion. Instantly he knew that Dean was deliberately striving to remove any guilt from his little brother's shoulders for pushing him forward, for exacting more pain and exhaustion on his already abused body. His assumption was confirmed a moment later when Dean's self-sacrificing gesture was followed by a smart aleck comment: his brother's standard deflective measure against pain, defeat, fear.

"On the bright side, I don't think we were followed," Dean quirked, discouraged at the raw, thickness of his words but heartened that he managed to draw enough breath to speak as he and Sam stumbled forward into the forest as the sun was setting.

Sam smiled and shook his head, his brother's humor lightening the oppressive weight that had begun pressing on him again to be the leader, to ensure the safety, _survival_ of Dean, of them both. Taking on more of his brother's weight, Sam shifted his fingers a little higher on his brother's torso as he maneuvered him and Dean through the labyrinth of trees. Feeling the weakness, the trembling in Dean's body, Sam felt thankful that they could make the trek shoulder to shoulder again, knew his support and his brother's stubborn willpower and protective instincts were the only things keeping Dean on his feet, in motion, probably conscious. "Let's get as far as we can before it's too dark to see," he announced, feeling somewhat uncomfortable dictating their plan of action.

"OK," Dean unreservedly agreed, relieved that Sam wasn't asking his opinion because, crap, he could hardly breathe, move, let alone think. Sam didn't comment back and Dean lost himself in the motion, in the necessity of moving one foot in front of the other, of latching onto Sam, determined to not slow his brother's progress down, to not hamper Sam's efforts to get them somewhere safe…at least for the night.

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TBC

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Thanks to those wonderful reviews last chapter! I loved 'em all!

As you noticed, the boys haven't got any breaks yet but I promise they are on the homestretch to freedom! What can I say, I'm an action junkie! The higher the number of dire situations, the better I like a movie/story.

This was going to be a huge chapter but I ended up splitting it up so the 2nd part – Chapter 18 is practically ready to go. This of course will add another chapter to my "chapters to go 'till completion" tally.

**Spoiler/Hint**: for those of you who care, the next chapter deals with Dean's hatred for rats.

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	18. Biting Regrets

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Well I'm not sure if the flashback in this chapter really works. Maybe it should have had a different tense or prospective to keep in the flow of the main story. Hope you forgive me if it was a mistake to put it here instead of keeping it an entirely different, free standing story of its own. BTW, since I put the flashback in, this chapter turned into a long one. You've been warned.

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Chapter 18: Biting Regrets

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When there was barely enough sunlight filtering through the forest to differentiate between a tree and open ground, Sam knew they had no option but to concede to Mother Nature. Clutching onto Dean's waist, seemingly carrying more of his brother's weight with each step they made, Sam couldn't help but feel relieved that they couldn't keep moving, that the decision of whether or not they halted for the night was taken out of his hands.

Seeking out a clearing to settle in for the night, Sam found himself speaking non stop, giving a commentary on their search for a clearing, listing each spot's pros and cons, joking that their accommodations would not be up to their normal high standards. Through it all, Dean remained silent, didn't make even a grunt in protest or agreement, merely clung to his brother and let Sam solely make the decisions. In past times, Sam would have reveled in taking the lead, in Dean's easy capitulations to his decisions, even in Dean's silence. But not here, not now, not like this.

Though his eyes constantly flickered worriedly to his brother's profile, Sam didn't press his brother for any reassurances that he was still alright, knew that his prompting would only encourage Dean to try and don his invincible big brother persona. And Sam didn't want Dean's energies wasted on that effort, an effort that wasn't needed, not for him. Out of all the people in the world, he knew the true strength of his big brother. A strength that had allowed Dean to survive the loss of his mother, his father's oft times abandonment, the weight of raising his brother who was only four years his junior, to not falter at the horrific tasks thrust upon him by his father's headlong pursuit and annihilation of supernatural evil. No, his brother's remarkable strength had been proven long ago and nothing could ever dim Sam's awed respect for that strength, for his brother.

But knowing his brother's strength and believing it couldn't be shattered, that was two different things. And that knowledge left Sam anxious to alleviate the _need_ for Dean's strength. With that goal in mind, Sam chose the next clearing they stumbled into, though it wasn't large and was choked with downed leaves, twigs and a network of thin roots. "This looks pretty good," he tentatively announced, scanning it like he would a prospective apartment, as if he were envisioning where his bookcase would go.

Dean, however, held no such misgivings for their night's accommodations, was prying Sam's hand from his waist even before Sam finished speaking. Freed of his brother's strong hold, Dean sank to his knees, thanking God that Sam had relented to the darkness and stopped their torturous trek. Trembling, Dean bowed his head and breathed deeply. His whole body throbbed in pain.

Looking down the length of chain that bound him to his brother, "Dean," Sam tiredly sighed, half in frustration and half in affectionate sympathy for his brother's exhaustion. "I was going to scout out the area first, see where we are."

"We're in a forest, Sammy," Dean mumbled back, unmoving, not even wasting the energy to raise his head to see Sam's reaction to his comeback.

"Yeah, I figured that out on my own, Dean. I meant check out what's around us, in case we need to clear out fast," Sam elaborated, eyes scanning their surroundings, wishing it didn't all look the same, didn't offer the same bleak green and brown backdrop that had been their companion for the past couple of hours.

"You do that, Sammy," Dean challenged even as he braced his right hand on the ground before levering himself down to lie on his side right there on the forest floor. Grimacing as a root pressed against one of his sensitive ribs, he only offered up a silent curse before closing his eyes.

"Yeah, thanks, Dean," Sam grumbled under his breath, unconsciously shifting the manacle that bound him to his now prone brother. Suddenly he felt a new found sympathy for dogs that were tied to their dog houses for the night. Knowing when to fold a losing hand, Sam gave the surrounding forest one final glance, embedding it into his memory before it faded into dark shapes. Then he crouched down beside his brother, studied Dean as he lay on his side, eyes closed, still except for the movement of his breathing. Sam couldn't help feeling that unease, that catch in his throat, that flutter in his gut he always felt when Dean's vulnerability was blatant, when his brother's strength was nearing its limit. '_He's fine. Just exhausted_,' he tried to reassure himself but he wasn't even buying that one. '_Yeah, he's fine!? What?! Have you been listening to Dean's bull so long you're starting to buy into it! For pete's sake, Sam, he's hurt! He's had a concussion, been bleeding, was speaking freakin' Latin for days and now you're dragging him through God's county, using him as a ladder and a life raft.'_

"Crap, you're not going to start spewing your emotions like some slumber party invitee, are you?" Dean muttered without opening his eyes, though his affection for his brother and his emotions colored his words.

Giving a short "huh" of laughter, Sam didn't bother fighting the smile that wanted to slip onto his face but he did shake his head in amazement at his brother. For being someone who was emotionally closed off, his brother sure knew how to read his little brother's emotions like an issue of Today's Mechanic. Running his left hand through his hair, Sam denied, "Ah, no. No! I was just thinking that we should clear this area off a little more, make sure there aren't any snakes nesting here."

"Snakes, huh? Got a little Indiana Jones fear going there, Sammy?" Dean teased, delivering his taunt with his eyes closed. But the smirk on his lips bespoke of the energy he always kept in reserve, just in case he had an opening to rib Sammy about something.

His eyes fixed on his brother's face that lay pressed into the leaves just by his crouched position, Sam scoffed back without malice, "Yeah, like you have room to talk. I wasn't the one freaking out about some rats, dude." Instantly Sam knew the words were all wrong, would inflict harm he had _never_ intended.

Seeing Dean stiffen at the barb, being the recipient of a hit and run glance from his brother's suddenly too expressive eyes, Sam harshly berated himself for being a heartless idiot. '_Just great! Good one, Sam. Kick Dean while he's down! You know this rat thing is about something worse than rats for him_.'

Unsuspectingly cutting across Sam's self chastisement, Dean wearily admitted "You're right," shame tinting the two words as he purposefully kept his look away from Sam's too perceptive gaze.

"Dean, hey, I'm sorry. That was a low blow," Sam quickly apologized, feeling as low as the snakes he was so worried about sleeping with.

Meeting Sam's gaze head on, Dean lowly refuted, "No. It was fair. I deserved it," his eyes dark, lifeless.

Battling through his emotions, Sam felt stunned as he realized that he had seen that same raw, defeated look in his brother's eyes before: after he had shot Dean with rocksalt and berated him for being pathetic. Whatever hope Sam had clung to that his words hadn't wounded his brother fled. And he felt a thousand times worse when Dean rolled away from him onto his other side, knew by his brother's grunt of pain that it was a costly effort but one that Dean apparently deemed worthy just so he could gain what distance he could from his little brother.

Lying with his back to Sam, his face now shielded from his little brother's too discerning eyes, Dean scornfully growled, "It's **stupid** to be afraid of rats." He hated himself for his fear, fear that was intensifying its grip on his soul as the memories seeped through his barriers.

Needing time to figure out the right thing to say to his brother's statement, Sam settled himself down onto the ground. He made sure he didn't touch Dean in the process, knew that in Dean's eyes that would be a breech to the unwritten rules they had between them for times like this. Times when honesty was offered, emotions were revealed, when one wrong word, one wrong gesture had the power to sever the bond they had between them. Hadn't his departure for Stanford and his resulting withdrawal from Dean for two years been the result of just such a mistake, on both their parts?!

Mouth dry, heart thudding in his chest with a different fear than he had been outrunning since they had made their prison break, Sam bit his lip indecisively as he eyed his brother's taunt back. There was safety in silence, in making no reply, in letting Dean make his confession and then close down, walk away, pretend nothing happened, that what Dean said didn't effect him. And Sam had chosen that path before, when Dean had leaned against the Impala, utter devastation on his face and admitted that he believed their father had died for him, had then asked Sam how he thought he could make that alright. But Sam's silence had cost him, had allowed Dean to shut down, to lock him out, to make a foolhardy strive to internalize the hurt even more. It left Dean susceptible to contemplating crossroad deals to get Dad back and so unwilling to tell Sam what their father's confession and last order to him had been that he nearly shattered under the weight.

"Everyone's scared of something…" Sam quietly began because he wasn't going to risk that again, letting Dean break, allowing him to hurt in silent solitude. When Dean didn't make a reply, Sam acknowledged, "For me it's clowns and snakes," watching his brother's still form for any reaction. Not noting any easing in his brother's tense posture, Sam tacked on, utilizing some of the humor Dean had nurtured in him, "And then there's the thing that terrorizes me the most……seeing old ladies in bathing suits."

Dean's small chuckle felt like Sam's first breath of air after he had nearly drown in the river: sweet and treasured and deeply missed.

Appreciating Sam's attempt to lighten the mood, to ease the tension between them, to lessen his shame, Dean rolled onto his back, made himself open to his brother's healing companionship. "Sam you're such a girl," he affectionately joked, turning his head, his eyes meeting Sam's.

Putting on his best wounded look, Sam countered, "Am not," but a smile was fighting to pull onto his lips. With a contented sigh, he rolled his head so he could look straight overhead, knew Dean was mimicking that same posture. "I know that it's not just about rats," Sam gently stated, hoping that by not looking at Dean he could give his brother the space he always needed to open up. Hearing Dean's intake of breath and knowing that the sound didn't herald Dean's intention to talk, Sam scrambled to retreat back across the line Dean had set for the topic. "Alright, I'm dropping it, Dean. I won't mention it again," he softly surrendered, knowing that pushing Dean right then would do more harm than good, would reopen his brother's wounds instead of healing them.

Dean could hear the ache in Sam's voice, knew his brother was wounded by his barriers, realized that Sam probably hurt because _he_ hurt. '_He thinks I'm not spilling my guts because I don't trust him. But it's me I don't trust._' Dean feared… _knew _that if he opened up, if he thought about the past, he couldn't trust himself to keep it together. Was the reason he had devised the whole, 'shut it down, lock it away and throw away the key' survival method for things too unpleasant to bear thinking about, ever again. And heck, there was a lot in that lockbox, memories and feelings and regrets and a truckload of _pain_, pain that was debilitating, would leave him more broken than he already was. No, he couldn't free that stalking wolf, couldn't let it see the light of day, not even for Sam.

"Dad really hated rats, too," Sam voiced almost unconsciously, having remembered that fact now and finding that he couldn't simply write it off as a coincidence. Hunters rarely believed in coincidences and Winchesters even less so.

"What?" Dean's voice cracked, his surprise and uncertainty unchecked, his eyes meeting Sam's through the pale moonlight.

Clearing his throat, knowing that he couldn't abandon his path now, Sam elaborated, "Yeah, we were in this old crumbling shed looking for iron and there were like fifty ra…" Shooting Dean a look, Sam stopped himself from saying the word, instead he skipped ahead. "Well, we got the iron we could find and then torched…them… the shed. It went up like a bonfire."

With his heart pounding loudly in his chest, Dean tightly asked, "When was this?" trying to dissuade himself from making the mental connection between his father's hatred and his own.

"Um…guess I was fifteen maybe sixteen. It was weird, I never picked up on that before, you know, him hating rats," Sam left his voice trail off, ashamed that he had turned Dean's fear into a 'remember when'. "I'm just saying, Dad didn't like them either. Maybe you just picked up your hatred for them from him."

His tongue darting out to moisten dry lips, Dean corrected, his voice hoarse, "Other way around."

"What?" Sam gently prodded, glad the strip of moonlight falling on them was strong enough to illuminate Dean's face, if not highlight his expression.

"I think Dad didn't like rats because of me, Sam," Dean surmised, surprised and humbled by the revelation, touched by it. Knew that if he was right, it enforced his earlier belief: His father had loved him all along, loved him enough to come to hate anything that had hurt him, had dared to harm his son.

"I don't understand, Dean," Sam quietly admitted, eyes fixed on Dean's profile. He didn't want to push Dean, hadn't intended to but at this crossroads he felt he could almost reach his brother, might be granted permission to see into his brother's well fortified soul. "Talk to me, man. What do you mean Dad's hatred for rats was because of you?" he gently implored, desperate for a way to help ease the hurt that memory obviously inflicted on his brother.

Daring a glance to Sam, Dean could just make out Sam's facial features as the moon slipped behind the clouds, but his brother's voice, his words told him more than Sam's expression ever could. Sam was worried about him, was trying every avenue he knew to get to him, was desperately hoping his big brother wouldn't reject him, rebuff the aid he was openly offering. And Dean found himself wanting to open up to Sam, to let someone else be there with him as the memories ambushed him, to not be alone with them, to just not be alone, in his head or even in this forest.

"Franklinburg, Tennessee," Dean started, hating that his voice was rough, unsteady, _vulnerable_. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he looked away from Sam's gentle, expectant eyes, looked at the trees overhead but that only made things worse, cut deeper into the shackles around his memories. This setting, it was too similar, made the memories too sharp. Closing his eyes, he began. "Do you remember that seventeen year old boy who had been kidnapped?"

Sam stilled, his eyes fixed on his brother's now night shadowed profile, but his heart thudded in his chest as his own memories of that time broke free. "You went out looking for him in the forest, on your own." Sam had to draw in a breath, swallow down the emotions clamoring to spill from him because this memory, it was too intense, even eleven years later. "And you fell into that cavern, nearly bled to death."

"Ok, so you do remember the kid," Dean sarcastically countered, needing to put Sam on the defensive, to wipe that gentle, hurt, compassionate tone from his brother's voice. Had to if he wanted to get through this, say what needed saying without remembering things, _feeling_ things. Sam's livid eyes sparkled across the growing darkness to him and there was fury in his brother's voice, washing out the other spectrum of emotions that had been there a second before. Sometimes Dean hated being successful at pushing Sam's buttons.

"Screw the kid, Dean! I don't remember this because of some kid, I remember it because of you, because you did something stupid…." Sam heatedly threw back, frustrated that Dean chose to always downplay his own injuries, to put some stranger's wellbeing before his own, even when he was reminiscing about the past.

"Stupid, huh? So saving someone's life is stupid now?" Dean drawled tauntingly, cutting Sam off. Down deep, he welcomed the deflection Sam had unknowingly offered to him. Or maybe not so unknowingly?!

"Don't try and sideline me with your hero complex! Dean, you went hunting _alone_…" Sam accused, voice rising with his tension, eyes clashing with his brother's.

"It wasn't hunting. I was _searching_…" Dean interrupted, needing that point to be clear because the distinction mattered, was the difference between obeying and disobeying one of his father's strictest rules when he was a kid.

"You went hunting alone and you were out there hurt, _bleeding_ for hours, Dean! If I hadn't called Dad and if he hadn't known where to look for you…" Sam broke off, needed to take a deep breath. Instructed himself to see the memories through his twenty four year old eyes not the twelve year old boy that he had been, who had nearly crumbled apart at the prospect of losing his big brother.

'_Yeah, because I handle seeing Dean hurt, on his freakin' death bed so much better now,_' Sam sarcastically thought, wondering if, when he was that twelve year old boy, his heart threatened to break free of his chest every time he thought that his brother was going to be taken away from him, that Dean would leave him.

Letting silence stand a moment, Sam accepted that his current tactics to breach Dean's barriers were destined to fail. He couldn't approach this topic with care or concern for Dean. It would only get another one of his brother's walls slamming down in his face. Making his tone as even and unemotional as he could, Sam restated, "Right, yeah. I remember the boy you went looking for."

Unbalanced by Sam's emotional reaction to an event he had been sure that his little brother wouldn't even remember, Dean couldn't make a reply. Honestly didn't know how to continue, how to talk about something he had never talked about before, had never wanted to _think_ _about,_ ever again. But here, looking at the dark shadows of the trees overhead, hearing the rustle of the leaves, remembering the rats in the hole…he couldn't control the memories, couldn't pick and choose what he remembered, what he felt.

When Dean didn't speak, Sam turned his head to look at Dean's profile, could feel, if not see, the tension coming off of his brother. "Dean, what is it?" he gently prodded, wanting to know the truth even as dread churned in his gut. Watching Dean swallow and shoot him a quick look before turning his attention again to the trees overhead only made Sam's worry for his brother grow. "This, being out here, it reminds you of that, being trapped in that cavern, doesn't it?" his voice nearly cracking on the word 'trapped', hating to think about a sixteen year old Dean lying hurt in a cavern, unable to move, to rescue himself.

Clearing his throat, Dean admitted, "Some," his voice still embarrassingly rough. He forced strength into his next words. "Rats did too. A lot," he lowly confessed with bitter sarcasm, needing that defense, even with Sam, maybe especially with Sam. He was supposed to be the strong one here, the protector, the invincible big brother.

"Rats? I don't understand. What do they have to do with what happened eleven years ago?" Sam asked, treading lightly on the tenuous connection that his brother was offering to him.

Dean clenched his jaw a moment, got himself under control, focused on allowing just a few whispers of the past to slip from the mental lockbox he stowed away. When he spoke, he knew that he couldn't put any effort into making his voice less rough, worrying about how low it was. Knew that it was costing him everything he had just to say the words. "When I went looking for that missing kid and fell into the cavern..he was there, Sam."

"Who?" Sam's words were a hushed gentle whisper, barely louder than the rustling of the leaves.

"The boy, Billy Martel." A lump formed in Dean's throat. He hadn't said the boy's name in eleven years but he remembered what the boy looked like, had woken up from nightmares with that boy's face burned across his retinas.

"Right, I remember now," Sam revealed. "When Dad found you and called in the paramedics they decided to search the rest of the cavern, thought maybe the kidnapper had kept Billy in one of the other tunnels."

Dean couldn't have raised his voice above a near whisper if he wanted to, not with his throat constricted, his lungs refusing to draw in air. "They didn't have to search for him."

"What? Yeah they did, Dad said…" Sam refuted, but he broke off as Dean shook his head. Dread settled into Sam's chest, because this was where Dean always hid his hurt: in the thin area where Dean's story diverged from his. It was there that the most bitter truths lay hidden, unspoken, denied.

"No. I almost landed on him, Sam," Dean confessed in a raw, low voice, running a nervous hand over his mouth as the memories came into sharp focus, unedited and without mercy.

////////////////////////////////Eleven Years Ago/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The impact knocked the breath from Dean's sixteen year old frame, cutting off what would have been a scream of agony. He could only lie there, trying to wrestle air from his compressed lungs as plywood and dirt pelted him from overhead, as piercing pain shot up his left leg. His first breath was a choking sob and some part of him, the part of him groomed to be a soldier, was glad that no one was around to hear the sound. But a moment later, the relief morphed to dread. No one was around. **No one**. He had dropped Sammy off at soccer practice and his father was who knew where, scouting out another job.

Then he heard it, the rustling of fabric, the shifting of dirt emanating from his left where the light slipping in from the hole created by his unplanned fall never reached. His instincts taking over, he reached a steady hand down into his jeans' pocket, pulled out the flashlight he had had the insight to bring. Trying to shift himself upright, only to bite his lip to hold back a cry of agony, he abandoned the hopeless notion of moving. Again, he heard noises. Taking a steadying breath, he pointed the flashlight to the left side of the cavern that he had fallen into and turned it on.

Whatever breath he had regained was lost again at the scene the flashlight illuminated. Nausea, fear and sorrow washed over him, vying for supremacy. He had found Billy Martel, the seventeen year old boy that had gone missing, the boy that Dean and his father had sought to find, to save. But Billy was beyond saving now…except from the rats that covered his dead body.

Two questions screamed in Dean's head: _Had Billy been dead __before__ the rats had come to feast? And would __he__ be dead before they found fresh meat a more enticing meal?_

"Keep it together, Dean," he said aloud, not sure if the sound of his own voice in the void of the cavern reassured him or disheartened him. It was some consolation to know that what had taken Billy, had brought him to this cave, would not be coming for him. Had not even been something supernatural but something all too human, a twisted example of humanity but still of the human race. A man that, even now, sat in a prison cell, awaiting trial. A man that had either killed Billy or left him here to die. '_Maybe left him here __wishing__ to die_,' Dean couldn't help thinking. Pulling his eyes from the corpse, he swallowed down the lump of fear that had caught in his throat.

Knowing he had to take stock of his own situation, had to see to his own survival, Dean shone the flashlight's beam onto his left leg and raised his head as far as he could manage. There was a dark stain growing at the shin of his jeans, surrounding the pencil thin end of a stalagmite piercing through his leg. Cursing, he let his head fall back onto the ground. Possible muscle damage, shock, death from blood loss if he tried to free his leg from the stalagmite: he could catalogue all of the outcomes without hesitation. "This sucks out loud," he groused to the cave, to the forest overhead.

Yelling for help was out. He was too deep into the forest, in a too desolate portion of the woodland. '_And if yelling could have been a saving tactic, Billy wouldn't be lying dead next to you. Dad and I would have heard his cries when we almost headed this way yesterday!_ Dean slammed his fist into the ground. They had been so darn close! Would have probably campused this very area next had the cops not reported that a suspect had been named in the kidnapping, a human suspect, not a supernatural phenomena. And that had been all John Winchester needed to hear to pack things in, to abandon the search. Because when it had come down to it, John had been searching for the phenomena, not the missing seventeen year old boy. After that, nothing Dean said could convince his father to rejoin the search, to finish covering the area of the forest they had mapped out as possible lairs for a supernatural evil.

But Dean's gut hadn't let him drop the search, especially after hearing that the kidnapper had been caught and was refusing to give up Billy's location. So, Dean felt relieved when his father announced his decision to bug out the night before, promising to call him today. '_Yeah, right_,' Dean had thought of the promise, of John Winchester's thousand unmet promises, even as he slapped on an accepting smile and watched his father walk out the door. That just left Sam to contend with and with his twelve year old brother's double header soccer games, it gave him a few hours to continue his search.

'_I thought I was so freakin' smart_,' Dean railed at himself. He shifted on the ground only to yelp in agony, causing him to tally "Can't freakin' move" to the top of his list of "How Royally Screwed I Am ". Followed hard on its heels was the fact that he didn't have a phone, CB or, heck, even a way to send up smoke signals. And then there was the whole, trapped in a hole with a dead kid, some hungry rats and with blood ruining the last pair of jeans he had to his name.

"Alright, alright. Take care of any injuries first, that's what Dad taught me to do." Cataloguing blood loss and shock as his imminent concerns, Dean knew he had to find something to wrap around his leg, to slow the blood loss and had to stay calm. '_Yeah, calm sure. Freakin' walk in the park,_' he chided himself as he tried to come up with something to stop the blood flow. His options were short: either his jacket or shirt or Billy's jacket or shirt. Fighting back the shiver that threatened to course through him, he decided on his own apparel, namely his denim jacket, even though he knew keeping warm was also an important factor. '_Yeah, but not important enough for me to be stealing fashions from a corpse_.'

Rising himself up on his elbows and maneuvering out of the jacket was painful and so exhausting that when he finally was free of the fabric, he crashed back on the ground, sweat soaking his face and hair and his breathing labored. After marshaling his energy and strength for a few minutes, he slipped his knife from his pocket and cut his coat into two halves, wishing he hadn't worn his favorite coat. Of course with only two coats in his closet to choose from, both were pretty much his favorite because he had learned to treasure what he had, knowing that tomorrow he might not have anything.

Shutting off where that pessimistic thought led, always led, he forced himself to sit up, felt lightheaded with the agony but still managed to slide a portion of the coat under his leg and wrap it around the stalagmite that was piercing the back of his leg before he fell backwards again with a curse, breathing harder as the agony upped the ante. '_Suck it up, Winchester. Finish the job. Now!_' His internal voice sounded like his father, had him pushing himself upright, now shaking hands wrapping the other half of the jacket around the cone shaped mineral deposit peeking out of the top of his leg. Pressing on the ruined flesh under his coat in an effort to clot the blood welling out of him, he couldn't hold back a growl of agony. Collapsing back onto the ground, spent, he found himself slipping into the void, wondering how long it would be until he was missed….if he would be missed at all. Unable to latch a mental handhold onto consciousness, he passed out.

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Dean was dreaming about his mother, about her smile, her laugh, the way she ran her hand through his hair and dropped kisses on his head. Could _feel_ the look she gave him, the one that said 'I love you' without one word. "Mom," he choked out as the dream fled, as he was mercilessly pulled back to the agony, to the cold ache in his bones, to the feel of light shifting weight on his legs and chest.

Prying open his eyes, blinking to focus them, it came back to him before his vision cleared, the dead boy, a cavern, him being unable to move. "Aghh!" he growled out in surprise as a new pain sprang from his arm, giving him enough clarity to snap his vision into focus, to look to his arm, to see the rat who had mistaken his arm for a piece of cheese. Before he could fling his arm to free himself of the one rat, he saw the others, on his legs, on his chest.

With a yell of outrage and fear, he sat up, hands sweeping across his torso and his legs frantically even as a spike of agony from his leg had spots dancing in his vision. He had the thought that he might be landing on rats an instant before he fell backwards, his back impacting with the cavern floor, luckily impacting with _only_ the cavern floor. "Keep off me!" he intended to yell but it came out a gasping whisper of air. "I'm …not …dead!" '_Yet_'. And he couldn't stop himself from looking, at following the beam of the flashlight, of seeing the boy who had been a popular jock in school, who had a girlfriend, who had a mother who sobbed when John Winchester had asked questions about her missing son. A boy who was loved, outwardly, unreservedly, who was missed within half an hour, would be missed by those he loved forever.

A sob broke from Dean, for failing the other boy, for failing the boy's family, for being stuck here, hurt, maybe dying, for being jealous of the life Billy had had. Turning his head to look up, to see the sunlight, to feel it hitting his face like a gentle touch, it made everything worse, reminded him of the way he felt in his dream, when he thought he still had his mother, that she hadn't left him.

'_She would have missed me like Billy's mother missed him. She might have even cried if the police asked her where she thought I was, what my fate was. She wouldn't have wanted me out here, risking my life, not even to save Billy's life, to save a stranger's life.'_

Putting his hand over his mouth, Dean tried to constrict his sob, to be strong, to be John Winchester's son, not Mary's. Knew he had succeeded when he simply clamped his eyes shut when the rats came again, didn't scream or thrash about, costing him energy he didn't have, jeopardizing the staunched blood from his leg to flow again.

He was not like Billy Martel, he didn't have a mother praying he would come back home safe and sound, he didn't have friends wondering if they would ever play another baseball game together, win another championship game again. His fate announced over the intercom in school would raise confusion not sorrow: Dean who? He even go to this school? Anybody know who they are talking about?

He wasn't that type of boy, would never be that boy, that type of future had gutted out with the fire that had killed his mother. He was John Winchester's son, Sammy Winchester's brother, was a hunter, not a jock. Was a freakin' survivor…even when he didn't always want to be. Was more of what his father had made him than his mother but part of her was still there, still within him. She would have cried for Billy, would have cried for Billy's mother, she would have wanted Billy found, to be brought home, even if she would have never risked her own son to see it done.

Stilling his breathing, swallowing down his sobs, Dean wiped his eyes, remembered why he had come out to the woods, why he had purposefully risked his life, gone against his father's wishes. "I'll make sure he gets home, mom," he promised quietly, '_one way or the other_.' Because he knew then, without any doubt, that his own father would bring him home, would eventually miss him, to wonder where he was, would not stop looking until he found his son….and consequently Billy. Would bring both boys home, one way or the other.

"He'll come, Billy," he softly reassured, not tearing his eyes from the specks of sunlight filtering in from the trees above. He winced as another rat bit him at the ankle of his impaled leg. "And he's going to torch all of you little furry rodents, BBQ you up with lighter fluid like the freakin' Fourth of July! I'll get the last laugh…. I will," but he wondered where he would be laughing from, this life or the next.

"Your mom won't have to live not knowing, Billy. Maybe that'll be enough to give you both some peace. Me… I don't know what peace is….thought I did once…didn't even know it when I had it back then." He licked his dry lips and remembered the water canteen he had stowed in his jacket, but was scared to jostle the jacket pieces that were wrapped around his legs, were stemming the blood gushing from him, were maybe saving his life.

'_I'm not that thirsty_,' he told himself. As he shivered, he tacked on, '_or that cold.' _Growled as another rat treated him like a dairy product, '_or dead yet_,' viciously knocking that particular rat from his chest with his hand. '_Sooner or later, Sammy or Dad will miss me, will know I'm not just screwing around and lost track of the time, that I wouldn't blow off my responsibility to Sam. Then Dad will come, will figure out where I headed, why I came out here, will know that I would have come back if I could have._'

He bit his lip and choked back the word that screamed through him, '_When!_?' His father would come, he would, but when would he come? Before the darkness blanketed the forest, left him in the dark with only a boy's corpse as company, before the rats formed a union and truly went to work on the guy whose blood wasn't gelled, was still warm and sticky.

"Don't think like that. Think about something else," he coached himself, brushing off the rats he could with angry motions and fighting back the chatter of his teeth he knew had nothing to do with the temperature of the day.

"Dad will revoke your driving privileges for this, will threaten to sell the Impala instead of letting you keep it. Will lecture you on being responsible, on using your head, taking notice of your surroundings. So what's your defense, Dean? How are you going to convince Dad to let you keep the car?" He fell silent but after a moment he knew that the silence was worse than the hallow echo of his own voice against the cavern walls. "I'll tell 'em that I need the car to take care of Sammy, yeah, he'll go for that. Since I've been "officially" cleared for driving, he's let me be in charge of Sammy's activities, let me decide that Sam could join soccer, since I promised to take Sam to all the practices and games. Sammy will whine if he has to quit the team and that Dad can't stand. No, he can't take the car from me, won't." Whatever relief he felt at the revelation, however, morphed into consternation. "Then what will he do to me? Ah crap, I'm in for the reaming out of my life. I'll be on military lockdown until I'm thirty."

'_If I live that long,_' his mind traitorously sneered, allowing his fear to again coil around him, to doubt that he'd have to worry about retribution for his actions, not from his father. No, fate was dealing his retribution out right here and now for being a wayward son, an insubordinate soldier, a careless older brother. Crap, Sam wasn't going to handle this well, being left with Dad, having to step up to the plate, be the soldier that his father had molded his eldest son into. "You'll be alright though, Sammy. Dad will ease up on you, will protect you better if he loses me. You two will make it together, without me, just like the three of us have made it without Mom." But his voice cracked on the last word, on the lie. They weren't making it, _he_ wasn't making it. He was dreaming of her and missing her and wishing she was somewhere missing him. And he was dying, alone. And there was nothing alright with that. Nothing.

///////////////////////////////////////////// Back to present////////////////////////////////////////////////

Drawing in a deep breath, feeling as if he had been talking for hours, Dean shook his head in a vain gesture to clear away the memories. He forced lightness into his next words. "When Dad showed up, I thought he was a hallucination."

Trying to get back the breath his brother's recollections had stolen, Sam quietly asked without accusation, "Why didn't you tell me all this then?" his full attention on the dark shadows that were Dean's face.

"You were twelve!" Dean shot back, as if that was so obvious. And it would have been, to any other family but the Winchesters.

Sam felt his anger surge, was frustrated and furious that Dean's protective instincts always lead up to his brother recklessly risking his own life. "Yeah and you were sixteen, Dean! Just a kid yourself, a year younger than that boy. You shouldn't have been…"

"And neither should he, Sam! He shouldn't have had to die like that. Dad and I …we were so close…" Dean denied, wishing again, like he had a thousand times before that he had done something different, had saved Billy Martel instead of ending up just lying there beside the other boy's corpse.

"Dean, don't!" Sam shouted, unwilling to let Dean carry this guilt any further, to let rats or caves or memories hurt his brother any more.

"I shouldn't have listened to Dad. I should have kept looking that day even after I knew it wasn't something supernatural that had taken the kid, that the kidnapper was in custody. I knew the kid wasn't found, Dad knew that and still we came in, abandoned the trail. And don't tell me we can't save everyone. We could have saved him…like Dad saved me." The words pouring from Dean now, the long sealed floodgates open, the guilt mixing with self hatred.

"Yeah, and I could have gone with you when you went out searching for the boy," Sam countered, a hard edge to his tone. "I knew where you were going but I let you drop me at soccer and drive away. I could have made sure you didn't fall in that hole, lay there, too hurt to move, lay there next to a freakin' corpse of a kid your age, with rats…" Sam stammered to a stop as it fully hit him how things could have turned out…if only he hadn't let Dean drive away that day. He had thought it was bad enough that his brother had been hurt in the fall, had had to lay there, bleeding, praying someone would find him. But this? Knowing the rest of it? It was so much worse, made him sick to his stomach. He could have prevented it all if only he had challenged Dean, hadn't bowed to his hero worship of his big brother and instead refused to let Dean drive off without him, or had simply begged Dean to stay out of the woods.

Venomously Dean shot down even the _thought_ that Sam could have prevented what had happened to him, that Sam had any reason to feel even one ounce of guilt for how things had turned out. "Yeah or you might have fallen in, Sam, or maybe both of us!" he growled, frustrated that the darkness concealed his brother's face from him, from knowing that no guilty creases burrowed into his brother's forehead, that his brother wasn't biting his lip like he did when he was trying hard to keep things together. "It was all my fault, Sam. I should have just been more careful! Dad always said that it only takes one mistake…." Dean bitterly cursed his choices of eleven years ago.

"We can't second guess the past, Dean," Sam stated gently, accepting that truth, needing Dean to accept it. "We can't. It doesn't give us any answers. We did the best we could, Dad, you and me. We gave it everything we could. You gave it everything you had, almost your life. You could have given differently but not more, never more, Dean." Sam prayed that Dean knew that he was speaking the truth, that Dean came to accept that he had done all he could. Sam hoped his words also expressed how proud he was of his big brother.

"But it still wasn't enough," Dean brokenly said, swallowing reflexively, eyes on the moonlight peeking through the foliage.

"Dean, you gave enough a thousand different times to save hundreds of other lives," Sam pointed out, hurting for Dean, wishing Dean could see himself the way that he saw him: brave, compassionate, goodhearted and recklessly protective of the ones he loved, of even strangers.

"Doesn't change the way I feel," Dean confessed with rare honesty, defeat achingly ringing in his words.

Hearing that tone from his brother nearly undid Sam's own fortifications. As it was he bit his lip, hard and had to swallow down the lump in his throat. With cruel insight, he knew that he couldn't undo the damage their lives had inflicted on his brother, could only let Dean know that he understood. Better than anyone else, he understood. "I know," he softly said, his anguish shading the two words. Settling back down to lay beside Dean, his shoulder coming to rest against his brother's, he repeated with tender, sorrowful conviction, "I know."

For a few minutes they lay there in the darkness, side by side, their shoulders touching, only the sound of the forest between them. And somewhere in that silence they found middle ground, understood that no one would ever understand them better than they understood each other. No one. Not even their father had.

Nudging Sam in the side, Dean joked, "So Sammy, you gonna promise not to let anything rodent-like get past you to get to me?"

"Yeah, and you're gonna promise to keep the snakes away from me," Sam countered, a smile on his lips as he looked to his brother, though the gesture was lost in the darkness.  
"Dude, that's unfair. Snakes are poisonous," Dean protested, head turned toward his brother.

"That's why big brothers get paid the big bucks," Sam threw back as the smile still gracing his features widened.

"I wanna renegotiate my contract," Dean grumbled before shutting his eyes, the sound of Sam's chuckle easing the taut pull of muscles across his shoulders. "Night Sammy," he murmured, sleep starting to pull him under. But he didn't willingly surrender to the void until he heard his brother's tender "Night Dean", and knew that he wasn't alone, wasn't lost, not as long as Sam was with him.

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TBC

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Thanks for all those awesome reviews for last chapter!!!! I was overwhelmed with your kind words and encouragement!

Again, I hope the flashback was Ok. If you enjoyed it and want to know the "rest of the story" I'll love to hear from you. I have a rough draft for the conclusion but I'm focusing on finishing this tale first.

Thanks for reading and sticking with this story that's turned into this huge tale. Its weird how one small little idea like Dean speaking Latin is turning into this 20 chapter story. Guess it's true…I'm talking writing and I can't shut up. Thanks for trudging through chapter after chapter with me!

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	19. Reaping What You Sow

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I just couldn't get this chapter right. Hope it turned out ok.

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Chapter 19: Reaping What You Sow

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Sam woke with a start, like some internal sensor had clicked on, was screaming for him to get up, was telling him that he had slept through something he should not have. Heart pounding, drawing in ragged breaths, blinking away the haze of sleep, he frowned at the sight of trees, of forest a moment before his memories booted up. Lying absolutely still, he listened to his surroundings, wondered if some sound that heralded the posse's approach had jerked him from sleep. But only the quiet hum of the forest surrounded him.

Sighing in relief, he turned toward Dean, saw that his brother hadn't stirred from sleep yet. "Dean," he gently beckoned to rouse his brother, laying a hand on Dean's shoulder when his brother didn't stir. Sam was unprepared to feel the coldness under his hand, a frigidness emanating from his brother's flesh. "Dean," he called a catch in his throat as he quickly sat up to better see his brother. The weak dawn light penetrated the shadows that had concealed his brother's features from him the night before, leaving the starkness of Dean's pallor unhidden.

Sliding his hand onto Dean's right cheek, Sam nearly flinched away at the ice cold feel of his brother's face. "Dean?!" he desperately bade, panic spiking through him, terror starting to smother him at his brother's unresponsiveness, coldness. His eyes running down his brother's body, looking for some reaction, for some sign of hope, Sam released a moan of despair as he saw the blood stain on the right side of his brother's shirt. "No," he brokenly whispered, frantic but well trained hands flying down to cover up the bullet hole, to stop his brother from losing more blood, all the while cursing himself for not asking Dean if he had been hit last night.

But a look of surprise and then utter despair morphed onto Sam's face as the hands he pressed against his brother's flesh remained dry, brushed against blood that had dried hours ago, flesh that had lost its warmth sometime while he slept at his brother's side. "No, no, NO!" Sam denied, his tone building into a shout of inconsolable sorrow as he turned his attention back to his brother's face. Bracketing his brother's cold lifeless face within his trembling hands, tortured by his brother's closed eyes, by the void of the presence of life, robbed of the essence that was Dean, Sam drew in a breath that was shattered, teetered onto a soul leveling sob and let out a scream of his brother's name.

But it was his own name that Sam heard, that echoed back to him, was called by one of only two people that had been allowed to call him Sammy. "Sammy, come on, rise and shine." Determined to not let that voice go, to let it leave him, Sam reached with every fiber in his soul, intent on binding his brother to him in whatever small degree he could, willing to do anything to steal some part of his brother from the void.

Dean was totally unprepared for Sam's slack form to snap upright, for his brother's strong hands to slam around his biceps more brutally than manacles, for his name to tumble out of his brother's mouth in a shout or for his brother's dazed eyes to lance into his with such despair. "Hey, it's just me, Sammy," he quietly soothed, putting a hand upon his brother's chest to steady him, surprised to feel his brother's heart racing under his touch. Giving Sam's chest a pat, Dean said, "We're ok. I haven't heard anything yet," but as he tried to slip his arms from his brother's almost painful grip, Sam held on tighter, unwilling to surrender his physical connection to his brother.

"Dean, you were shot, you bled to death. You died!" Sam said, the words tumbling from him, his voice so thick by the last pronouncement that Dean flinched at his brother's pain. "I woke up and you were dead, Dean," an edge of hysteria creeping into his tone as he slid his hands frantically to his brother's side, to the place where the bullet wound had been. His eyes shot up to Dean's as his search only revealed his brother's unmarred flesh.

"Dean, you were shot…" he stammered, flashes of the dream too sharp, memories of the blood, the coldness of his brother's flesh and of the black hole void in his world where his brother should have been too painful to shrug off, to put away.

"Easy, easy," Dean gently ordered, hands sliding up to bracket his brother's face, tilting his brother's head up until his eyes met his brother's. "It wasn't real, Sammy. I'm not shot, alright. Was just a nightmare."

"You bled out, Dean. If it's a vision…." And his voice caught, petered out, faltered because believing that it was actually a vision? That dropped his heart into his shoe because his visions were never wrong, always showcased at least the most probably future…if nothing were done, if he didn't save the person. To have that person in his vision be Dean, _again…_Sam felt like he just might be sick.

"Then you would have a mother of a headache right now," Dean rationalized, green eyes level with his brother's blue. "And I'm not seeing that kind of pain in your eyes, right?" But he could see another kind of pain in Sam's eyes, remnants of an emotional kind of hurt. "It was just an ordinary, non-geek- psychic-boy nightmare, Sam."

Sam swallowed noticeably, felt the adrenaline, the terror in him regress, nodded reassuringly to his brother even as the sharp images, debilitating emotions of his nightmare clung to him.

Sliding his hands from Sam's face, Dean gave his little brother another pat on the chest with a grumble, "Move your lazy behind, Sammy. We gotta make tracks because I am **not** going back to digging sewer lines," he said, though he knew that digging sewer lines was the best scenario that would happen if Dylan and his merry men caught up with them.

Though Dean had initiated the reveille, it was Sam who was on his feet first, was reaching down to aid his big brother. Hating the need for help made Dean no less grateful for Sam's strong grip around his waist levering him to his feet. He couldn't suppress a groan as pain spiked from his injured side and aches flared from muscles protesting the previous day's events and the less than stellar sleeping accommodations.

"You alright?" Sam asked in that worried little brother tone, eyes latching onto Dean's.

"Super," Dean sarcastically muttered, hand slipping to his side to press on the source of the worst pain.

Tracking Dean's actions, Sam could only clench his jaw in frustration at his brother's obvious pain, a pain he had nothing to combat. Bitterly, he knew that he couldn't even offer to keep the day's pace slow in deference to his brother's injuries.

Forcing himself to drop his hand from his injured side, to ignore his body's whining, Dean stood up straighter and squared his shoulders. "You leading or am I?" he asked with a smirk to his brother.

"I'll lead," a voice they knew too well called out from the forest to their right. Before they could even _think_ of making a run for it, the click of a gun being cocked resounded in the quiet dawn. The brothers stood side by side, tense, angry, wired for action as Dylan stepped from the wooded area into the clearing, the gun he had leveled at them less menacing than the lethal expression he wore. "I know a nice spot….where two bodies will never be found."

Dean muttered a curse, eyes piercing Dylan's. "You part bloodhound? How'd you find us? We eat something with a LoJack chip in it or what?"

Drawing closer to the brothers with the confident stride of a man who was holding all the cards, who knew how the story ended, Dylan withdrew a flashlight from his pocket, waggled it in his hand. "I came prepared to travel at night. And after you guys went into the drink, it was just a matter of crunching the numbers: Once determining how fast the current would take you to the basin, it was just an easy calculation of the distance you could travel on land from that point until darkness fell last night."

For a moment both brothers stood there, looking at him, wearing matching expressions of bewilderment. Then Dean nudged Sam in the side and mumbled lowly, his words for his brother but his eyes fixed on Dylan, "He's bullcrapping us, right? I mean he couldn't….even you couldn't…." Then Dean turned expectant eyes and raised eyebrows to Sam, "Could you?"

"Dean, he just did," Sam tightly said, not even feeling the pride he usually did when his brother gave him more credit than he deserved.

Dylan unleashed a small bitter laugh, "You two are so full of yourselves, aren't you? Evade some law enforcement types for a year and you think you're Bonnie and Clyde."

"Actually we're more the Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid variety. I'm Cassidy," Dean cockily clarified, jerking a thumb toward Sam before continuing, "He's the Kid, course I've got more of Redford's good-looks than..…."

Raising the gun to sight on Dean's forehead, Dylan growled with unchecked hatred, "The only reason you're still breathing is I don't want to have to drag your carcasses through the forest." Noting that the younger man showed no fear at his words, instead wore a granite mask that vowed retribution, Dylan sought to shatter any illusions his prisoners had of a miraculous pardon, of some divine intervention. His eyes boring solely into Dean's, he said darkly, "You had to know that the _second_ you threatened my son's life, you were a dead man," the low quality of his tone more lethal than a shout.

At Dylan's threat, Dean started to step forward, to meet Dylan's challenge with his usual defiance. His advance, however, was blocked as Sam threw his hand out across his chest. An instant later, the younger Winchester established a more substantial physical barrier to his brother's impulsive reaction by stepping far enough between the two combatants so that his shoulder overlaid his brother's.

Though it was a victory when Dean halted, Sam knew the bigger battle was still to be won: controlling his brother's mouth. "Dean," he lowly entreated, but Dean was already talking over his warning. Sam found his brother's next words cut into him as sharply as they probably did Dylan, knew they said as much about Dylan as they did his own father. About what John Winchester had exacted from his eldest son.

"Yeah, and you should have known that the second you brought _your son_ on the job with you that you were sentencing him to an early grave or to prison," Dean said with contempt, knowing first hand what it was like to be led unto a ruinous path by someone you trusted. Knew what if felt like to follow that path out of love, to cling to the hope that the reasons you were made to walk that treacherous way were rooted in love, were meant for good, were somehow worthy of your pain.

"Don't talk about my son," Dylan warned, a flash of rage sparking in his eyes, his gun unwavering from its aim.

"Oh right. No one's supposed to know he's your son," Dean drawled with biting sarcasm. "That's sure keeping his hands clean, keeping him safe. I gotta wonder, now that the cat's out of the bag, what your men will do. Betrayed trust…that's always got some nasty consequences," he pointed out, voice hard, letting the other man jump to his own conclusions about how his men would vent their wrath. "And then there are the convicts." Dean smiled cruelly. "They won't hesitate to exploit that weakness of yours….just like I did."

"Shut up!" Dylan snarled, finger twitching on the gun's trigger. Knowing the other man was baiting him did nothing to quell the rising fear growing in his gut at the thought of someone hurting his son, hurting him while he was off chasing down some stranger with a big mouth and sharper tongue.

Also trying to silence his brother…. before Dylan silenced him permanently, Sam spoke simultaneously with the soldier, "Dean, don't," his voice a twisted mix of force and plea.

But Dean didn't heed Dylan's threat or his brother's plea, met Dylan's flashing eyes with cooler contempt. "Course I'm not so far gone morally as some of those convicts, haven't spent as much time in your camp as they all have…maybe don't hold the same level of hatred for you…yet. I could still find it in myself to offer you mercy…to _choose_ to not kill your son. But some of those men that you've treated like animals…" he let that sink in a moment before he said, "Now that they know there's something they can do, some way to hurt you... I mean the way you reacted back in the camp when I held a gun to your little boy's head," Dean gave a small disparaging shake of his head, "every con in there now knows that the worst thing they could do to you is kill your son. And you're out screwing around chasing us. You think Ricky's Ok back there….with your soldier pals that he's been ratting on and the convicts who want to shank him?" Dean baited without mercy, knowing his tactic might end badly for him but it would give Sam an opening to make a move, to survive.

Having his own worries spoken aloud, thrown into his face, it took every ounce of Dylan's military training on restraint to not pull the trigger, to not kill this prisoner and let his body lay where it fell. "One more word and I'll kill you where you stand," he snarled lowly, finger unconsciously pressing on the trigger.

Sam's heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it drown out the sounds of the forest, of his own breathing, even of Dean's that was almost in his ear due to the stance he had taken in front of his brother. Dean was a master at pissing people off but this went way beyond that, he was baiting the soldier to react rashly, to freakin' shoot him even. And Sam felt sick when he understood why, '_To save me. To distract Dylan just long enough for me to take him down, to get free._' But a moment later that fear morphed into fury, into resolve and he stepped more fully in front of his brother, between Dylan's gun and his brother's stupid head. '_We're sticking together, Dean_!' he wanted to scream, wanted to lance his enraged eyes into his brother's, let Dean see that he wasn't going to accept any more sacrificial bull from him, wasn't going to be the lone survivor of the Winchester clan, not without one heck of a fight. And he would fight anyone to have that not happen, even his big brother with his reckless, self sacrificing, hero complex.

"You shoot him and you'll be dead before you hit the ground," Sam hissed, his eyes showcasing his lethal fortitude as they seared into Dylan's, matching the same ferocity Dean had used in River Grove when Mark threatened to shoot him after he had been infected. In his head, calculations were already being made on how fast he could reach the other man, how he could deflect the soldier's aim, what fatal strike he would make if the worst happened.

'_Crap, Sammy, don't undo all my hard work at getting him torqued_!' Dean thought, seeing some of Dylan's commonsense start to override the anger he had stoked. Ruthlessly shoving Sam aside, Dean took a step forward, making sure Dylan again had an unobstructed kill shot of him before he wrapped his next taunt in deadly menace. "You think you can just run my name through a data base, get some Federal Warrants for my arrest to flicker across your computer screen and then just click the computer off and stay off the grid?! I would lay odds that the Feds are knocking on your local sheriff's door right now, wondering where I'm at since I'm not sitting in a jail cell there. And let me tell you, the Fed that's assigned to my case, he's relentless, man, will have your bought sheriff spilling his guts before the Frisbees even drink their first cup of coffee."

And Dean could see uneasy flicker in Dylan's eyes, as if the soldier had known in his gut that running this particular prisoner's name through the Sheriff's system was going to cost him something. "You actually think I gave my real name to you because I was feeling cooperative?" Dean scoffed, a deadly gleam in his eyes. "Sometimes the only thing you can do is use yourself as bait, wait until a few predators show and then let them duke it out over you while you slip away."

Making a show of looking at his watch, Dean predicted, "I would say that soon there will be some nice Federal agents dropping into your little camp." Lifting his eyes to bore into Dylan's, he predicted, "I'm thinking your facility isn't up to the state's regulatory standards…especially when the bodies get unburied."

Without breaking eye contact with Dylan, Dean taunted, "Sammy, you were going to be a lawyer, what's nine counts of murder get someone like Ricky? He's over eighteen, right? Will be tried as an adult? But hey, I'm sure Ricky will make new friends when he gets to the Big House. He might want to butch up his name a bit…."

Blindsided by this new level of trouble this prisoner had heaped on his head, had heaped on his son's head, Dylan unleashed a growl of outrage and pulled trigger.

Knowing in his gut that Dean's grim predictions were the last straw for Dylan, Sam had begun moving before Dean had finished speaking, before Dylan's finger put more pressure on the trigger it was tightening against. It took Sam but one long legged stride to be within arm's reach of the gun. With his right hand linked to Dean, Sam put his left hand into play. Slamming his left palm against the muzzle of the gun, Sam felt grim satisfaction flare in him as his attack shifted the gun's sights momentarily from his brother's head, felt knee weakening relief at his success when the crack of gunfire echoed through the woods and the .45's bullet zinged harmlessly by his brother.

As the gun fired, Sam's worry that he had launched his attack too soon, that it was too rash, fled, was replaced with the terrible truth that Dylan had had every intention of killing his brother, of murdering Dean right before his eyes. Cold fury settled in his chest, pierced through his composure like a shard of ice and gutted out any trace of boyish naiveté from his dark glare. He was attacking before it really registered with him that Dean had stepped closer, was purposefully giving him as much slack on the chain that would hamper his battle as he possibly could.

With his left hand, Sam delivered a backhanded slap across Dylan's cheek that had the soldier's head snapping right. Desperate to keep the gun's sights off of Dean, Sam wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Dylan's right wrist and shoved the appendage further right, effectively pinned the other man's arm across his chest. Stepping forward, he rammed his knee into his opponent's gut.

Unprepared for the quick, ruthlessness of the attack from the prisoner he had deemed the lesser threat of the two, Dylan bent over at the strike to his stomach, though he increased his hold on his gun, resolved to not relinquish the weapon. Sensing the blow to come, he raised his arm, blocked Sam's left cross with his forearm. Bringing his arm down hard and quick, Dylan forced Sam's left arm down, sent it crashing into Sam's right arm, dislodging Sam's hold on his gun hand. Pushing his advantage, Dylan unleashed a right cross that sent Sam staggering back. Raising his gun, he sighted it on Sam this time.

"Sam!" Dean shouted in warning, knowing even as he moved forward that he would be too late, was reacting too slowly to the threat to his little brother. But before the worst could happen, in relief and pride he watched Sam land a kick into Dylan's chest before pouncing forward again, left hand gripping Dylan's gun hand, right fist connecting with Dylan's jaw, sending the older man back a few paces under the onslaught.

A seasoned soldier, Dylan used the space that had grown between he and his opponent to counterattack with a kick to Sam's left leg. Though it weakened Sam's stance it didn't drop him but it was enough of an opening for Dylan to overpower Sam's grip on his gun hand and re-sight the gun…over Sam's shoulder to the center of Dean's chest.

With tension and helplessness zinging through him as he watched Sam duke it out with Dylan, it took Dean a moment to realize that he was again the bull's-eye of Dylan's hatred. "Oh crap!" he muttered, knowing his evasive maneuvers were limited, bound to Sam as he was. Suddenly, he felt like a junk yard dog tied to his doghouse when a grizzly dropped in for a visit.

The second bang of gunfire, inches from his ear, startled Sam, sent terror coursing through him because he knew the bullet hadn't been meant for him. '_Dean!'_ he silently screamed, but didn't look behind him, didn't confirm his worst fears or reassure himself that his brother was miraculously still alive, hadn't left him. Did what his father had bred him to do: Reacted, fought, attacked…sought revenge for grievances real and perceived.

But even as he slammed his right elbow into Dylan's face, Sam couldn't shut out the dread, couldn't shake off the emotions the nightmare had brought to the light, couldn't bear to contemplate turning around and seeing Dean on the ground, shot, bleeding, dying….dead. It was only his father's voice in his head that kept him from abandoning the fight, kept him from seeking out his brother.

'_How are you going to help your brother if you're dead, Sam? Huh?! You let yourself get distracted in a fight wondering if Dean's alright and all you will do is open yourself up for defeat. You'll die Sam and then Dean will die. That how you want things to turn out?'_ And Sam remembered what the sixteen year old version of himself had sullenly replied "No sir," because it had been just training, just practice, wasn't real. The truth of his father's words would not sink in until a year later, not until he had let his worry for his brother distract him, not until he had been easily sidelined in the battle, had watched in gut wrenching fear as the spirit stalked toward his vulnerable brother.

Sam followed up the elbow blow by wrapping his right hand around Dylan's right wrist, putting all his strength and resources into disarming the other man…though bitterly he wondered if his intentions were already too late, were in vain because if that bullet hit Dean …Everything would be changed, his life, his world, him. And there would be no going back, no seeking redemption, no going on. When Dylan's hand curled around his fingers and the other man's full strength joined the battle for supremacy of the gun, Sam fought to shift the gun's sights away from himself, felt some sick catch in his throat when the gun pointed to his right and he knew Dean wasn't standing there, that he couldn't feel the strain on the chain that linked him to his brother.

"Shoot the chain, Sam!"

No training in the world could have stopped Sam's head from jerking to the right at his brother's voice, from his eyes from greedily seeking out his brother, who stood a few paces ahead of him to the right. Just as nothing could stop him from obeying his brother's order, from sighting the chain that his brother had managed to tautly stretch across the gun's sight lines. The third shot from Dylan's gun Sam met with relief, satisfaction as the bullet sliced through a metal link, severing the chain that bound him to Dean. He nearly smiled when their abrupt freedom, the absent tension on his brother's wrist consequently sent Dean stumbling backwards to land on his butt.

Turning back to Dylan with now an undistracted lethal intent, Sam used both hands to ruthlessly jerk Dylan's right hand down onto his raised knee with enough force to nearly shatter the other man's wrist, enough force to jar the gun from his grasp, send it flipping to the forest floor. Relishing in the free range of his right hand, Sam plowed his fist into Dylan's stomach, fisted the other man's shirt front in his left hand to keep him where he wanted him and plummeted Dylan's left eye with another right handed blow. Unrelenting, Sam stepped closer to his opponent, was able to finally take the fight into the zone he preferred: up close and personal.

In a flurry of motion, Sam blocked Dylan's right cross with his left forearm, slid his left hand down to wrap around Dylan's right wrist, and shoved the man's arm down enough to give him room to strike with a left cross to Dylan's jaw-line. He tried similarly to block Dylan's left handed assault but the soldier landed a right handed punch to Sam's left cheek before he could recover from blocking the first assault. Stumbling back, shaking his head, Sam faced Dylan, hands raised, fingers bent but not curled into fists, not yet.

The combatants circled one another, blood smeared on their cheeks, across their split lips, red splotches marking their flesh where bruises would emerge in an hour, their breathing was hard but not laborious, their movements measured, tempered. But nothing was tempered in their eyes. No quarter would be granted or requested. It would be winner takes all.

For Dean it was surreal, watching Sam fight, seeing the lethalness in his brother unleashed against something human, against a single man. And to him it felt all manner of wrong to be sidelined, to still be sprawled out in the dirt where he had fallen after the chain was broken, pain radiating through him, too tired, too weak to scramble to his feet. Shame flared in him at not being in the fight, that he was not taking Sam's place, that he wasn't taking up the gauntlet while he sent Sam to the safety of the sidelines. But, though each blow that landed on Sam made him wince and flinch and _hurt_, there was pride for his brother's fighting skills in his heart, blooming but it couldn't overshadow his stronger emotions. Emotions that welled in him at he watched Sam fight for _him_, to save _him_, to protect _him, _to save them both

Easily dodging Dylan's roundhouse right punch, Sam skipped a step forward and cracked an uppercut under Dylan's chin, snapping the soldier's head back. But he didn't press his advantage, instead backed off a step, let the other man regain his focus. Found he didn't want this to end too quickly, didn't want Dylan's defeat to come without pain, without the man knowing the bitter taste of being beaten. The man had made Dean beg. Made Dean beg for his little brother's life. And what was worse, Dean had done it, had done it wearing his freakin' heart on his sleeve, had done it because he loved his little brother more than his pride…more than his own life. No, Dylan didn't get to walk away with that victory, to think that he had beaten Dean, that he had taken something from his brother that couldn't be returned.

Dangerous eyes meeting Dylan's across the few feet that separated them, Sam sneered, "All that military training and that's the best you got? It's no surprise your little brother had to step in and try to save your worthless life."

Prepared for another punch, Sam left himself open to Dylan's kick which caught him on the left shoulder, sent him crashing to the ground. He laid there, breath knocked out of him, pain radiating from his shoulder, but when Dylan reached down and fisted his hand in his shirt, he gripped Dylan's shirt and yanked the older man forward. Using his legs to sweep Dylan's legs out from under him, it was then child's play for Sam to toss the heavier man over his shoulders to land on his back on the forest floor. Scrambling quickly to his feet, Sam saw that Dylan had also managed to climb to his feet. "I'm not going to fail to protect my brother, not like you did."

"You son of…"Dylan cursed, charging forward, rage overriding everything else. His advance was stopped cold when Sam's kick caught him high on the chest, sent him falling full-out onto the ground. Rolling over and levering himself to his feet as fast as his abused body would allow, Dylan sensed the younger man's slow deadly approach, knew for the first time that the older brother had not been lying, his little brother was way more dangerous than he looked. Coming to his feet, his stance threatening to fold on him, he saw that the younger man was almost upon him, was wearing an expression that spoke of murder. He blocked Sam's right handed swing easily, was still reveling in his success when his sixth sense warned him of the danger. But it was too late, Sam's kick was already on its deadly course. Dylan screamed in agony as he felt his leg break, felt himself crumbling to the ground.

Grim pleasure surged through Sam at the soldier's scream of agony. And no mercy glimmered in his cold stare as he looked down at Dylan as he lay on the forest floor, clutching his leg, face pale under the blood and bruising. "Your brother got hurt badly, didn't he? When he tried to save you? Some brothers are worth risking everything for…Dean is…but you aren't. Your brother was a fool to risk his life to save you."

Dylan made a half hearted attempt to latch onto Sam's leg but Sam maneuvered back and stepped on the soldier's broken leg, eliciting another choked yell of pain from the defeated man. "I would make you beg for your life…but you know, I don't really care if you live or die. You're nothing to me, your life is nothing to me." Putting more of his weight on the broken limb, he ordered, "Now toss your cell phone to the right." At the other man's defiant, pain filled glare, Sam shifted his weight on the broken bone, felt it move under his influence, heard the choked off scream from Dylan even as the man pulled the cell phone from his pocket and threw it weakly to the right.

"Keys to the cuffs," Dean's voice had Sam's head snapping right to see his brother still sitting on the ground, arm bracing his ribs, face white under the dirt. "And his wallet." At Sam's raised eyebrows, Dean justified, "Hey, even convicts get paid and I want paid, man. Digging those sewer lines sucked."

Looking back to Dylan, Sam said, "You heard him, keys and wallet."

Grimacing in pain and frustration, Dylan also pulled those items free of his pocket, tossed them to join his phone. Freeing his foot from Dylan's leg, Sam went over and retrieved Dylan's forfeited items. Pacing back a step or two, he picked the gun up from the forest floor. When the cold metal of the gun slid into his hand, Sam looked to Dean, felt his throat catch at how raw and abused his brother looked, was nearly overcome with knee weakening gratitude that Dean was alive. His jaw clenched against the flare of hatred at all the pain and torture Dean had been made to endure, that Dylan had orchestrated in one fashion or another.

Surprised to see Sam's face darken again with rage, Dean stammered, "Sammy…" his gut coiling in dread and uncertainty. His call was rewarded with Sam's startled, worried look, as if his plea had stripped the anger from him. "Help me to my feet, dude," he demanded, raising his hand up, pushing his other words aside, hoping they weren't needed, not once he was standing at Sam's side.

Instantly Sam came to Dean's side, putting the confiscated gun in the waist of his pants and pocketing Dylan's other items as he moved. Ignoring Dean's outstretched hand, Sam bent over, wrapped his right arm around Dean's waist and pulled Dean's left arm gently over his shoulders. Whereas Dylan's shout of agony brought him pleasure, Dean's grunt of pain shafted infinite misery through Sam's soul, like it always did.

Putting his left hand on Dean's chest to steady his brother against the onslaught of his pain and weakness, Sam simply stood there, holding his brother close as Dean clamped his eyes shut, trying to marshal his energy, to lock away his pain. Sam knew unerringly that the chain that bound him to Dean was still there, had always been there even when he was away at college. Was not a chain of bondage but one of love, was a tether to keep the things he held most dear from slipping away, from being taken away, from being foolishly discarded.

"You gonna be alright?" Sam gently murmured, eyes glued to his brother's pale profile. Dean's hummed positive affirmation wasn't the rousing endorsement Sam needed, but seeing Dean's eyes flicker open, seeing his brother raise his head from its bowed position helped ease Sam's worry.

Nodding toward Dylan, who lay on the ground, conquered, lines of pain marring his features, his eyes on them, Dean said, "Should probably get him to make a call to his men, telling them we're dead. That they should call off the search and return to base." Turning his head to Sam, he forced a small smile unto his tired lips, "Unless you're into more shootouts, car derbies and brawls."

"Nah, think I've gotten my fill," Sam drawled but he couldn't force himself to pull away from his brother yet, not until he knew Dean was able to stand on his own. Unwilling to showcase Dean's weakness to Dylan, wanting to shelter Dean from even the other man's opinion of him, Sam quietly asked, "You good?" using one of his brother's phrases, eyes piercing Dean's.

"Yeah," Dean answered, slipping his arm off of Sam's shoulders, releasing Sam. With a jerk of his chin to Dylan, he silently repeated his order.

Barely suppressing a sigh of frustration at his brother's bravado, Sam stiffly uncoiled his left hand from his brother's shirt and slowly withdrew his right arm from around his brother's waist. Tensed to resume his hold if Dean faltered as his supportive strength was withdrawn, Sam felt relieved when Dean's stance remained strong, without his support.

Stepping to stand beside Dylan's uninjured leg, Sam retrieved the gun from the waist of his pants even as he sent his left hand digging into his pocket for the cell phone. Tossing the cell phone onto Dylan's chest, he threatened, "If you say one wrong word, I'll put a bullet in your other knee."

When Dylan looked up from the cell phone to Sam, he saw that the younger Winchester held his gun in a loose, seemingly careless grip aimed at his knee. But when Sam cocked the gun and his eyes fell upon his own, the soldier in Dylan didn't doubt the other man's intentions, knew that his knee was not Sam's desired target. Drawing in a breath, Dylan picked up the phone, was about to hit speed dial when the elder Winchester spoke.

"Don't call Chase. Call your son," Dean ordered, a look in his eyes that Dylan couldn't interpret. Dean felt Sam stiffen beside him, felt Sam's look flicker back to him in some form of worry. Undeterred by Sam's worry or Dylan's confusion, Dean pressed, eyes meeting Dylan's, "Call Ricky and tell him that you're Ok, that Sam and I are dead and that everyone should return to camp."

At Dylan's hesitation, Sam growled, "Do it," his grip on the gun tightening.

But Dylan remained immobile and his eyes sought out Dean's, looked all the world like he was seeking mercy from the elder Winchester where he found none in the younger brother. "Can I…" he stammered, halted when he saw something shift in Dean's eyes. "I don't want him to pay the price for my sins. If you're right, if the Feds are coming…. Please, you didn't kill him and you could have. He's not me, not yet. But if he goes to prison…" Dylan left unsaid '_he will become like me_.'

Dean swallowed, thought maybe this was how his own father had sounded when he had pleaded for his life, had made a bargain to ensure that his son wasn't punished with the fate he thought he himself deserved. It was a wicked twist of fate that Dean understood now what it felt like to be willing to beg for the life of someone he loved more than himself, that he had been made to beg Dylan to spare Sam's life. Now Dean could garner his revenge against Dylan, could let the older man reap what he had sowed. Might have done that…if he knew Ricky would not be the one paying the ultimate price. If he hadn't recognized that the boy wasn't so different than he was, was headed toward an outcome that rivaled his own predicted end unless a kinder fate intervened.

Having spent his life protecting Sam from the dangerous path his father had led them upon, Dean wondered what the repercussions would be if he deflected another son from another father's destructive path of obsession. Wondered more what it would cost his own soul if he chose not to intercede, to willingly sentence Ricky to pay the price for his father's sins. "Tell him to go buy an out of state pickup truck to replace the two that were wrecked. Tell him to go now." As Dylan opened his mouth, Dean sneered, "I'm doing it because of him, not you, so don't thank me."

Nodding marginally but with a look of gratitude, Dylan dialed his son's number, unnoticed that Dean clenched his teeth when he realized the man didn't even have his son on speed dial, was probably lucky he even knew his son's cell number. Eyes flickering to Dean's, Dylan began, "Ricky, it's me," paused as his son broke into his greeting. "Yeah, I'm alright," he reassured and there was humbleness and pain flickering in his eyes before they fell away from Dean's, stared out at the forest that surrounded him. "They're both dead so call everyone back to base." He shook his head before he replied, "No, I've got it covered. I'll be back in a few hours. But I need you to do something for me," and Dylan grimaced at his son's easy capitulation, eagerness to do his father's bidding, to please him, to earn his love. "We have two pickups out of commission. I need you to go buy another one." He paused as his son suggested a cohort in the buying scheme. "Yeah, you can take him with you. It would be best if you bought the truck out of state." Looking to Dean, Dylan was surprised to see that the younger man had dropped his gaze, had shifted his head so that his face wasn't visible to him or even to his own brother. "Hey, you didn't do anything wrong," Dylan gently reassured, closing his eyes at his son's broken tone. "Those guys outwitted us all. Wasn't your fault…was mine, Ricky. It was all mine." Nodding to himself he closed, "I know you'll get a good price on the truck. Yeah, bye."

When Dylan clicked the phone closed, his eyes went to Sam's, met the gun muzzle that had somehow shifted from his knee to his head somewhere after he had initiated the call. Tossing the phone to the taller man, Dylan noted that it was Dean's hand that snagged it, that gripped it tightly, almost threatened to break it.

Dean's voice was rough when he spoke, "Come on, Sammy, let's get out of here," fisting his right hand in Sam's shirt, pulling on his brother's taller frame to get them in motion, to get them away from the look in Dylan's eyes, from the father's words to his son.

Sam found himself lowering the gun, complying with his brother's request, reacting to the weariness in Dean's voice, to the sliver of plead in his words. When his look swung away from Dylan, came to rest on his brother's face, Sam saw a shadow of grief, of regret in Dean's eyes, knew that Dean was thinking of their father, of maybe their father's final words to him. At the thought, Sam's jaw tightened, a thousand emotions blindsided him: jealousy, regret, sorrow, anger, disbelief, hurt and finally sympathy, sympathy for the weight his brother had carried since that day.

'_The weight to save me_,' Sam clarified, refusing to sugar coat it, to make it easier for himself, harder for Dean. Suddenly Dylan truly didn't matter, his fate couldn't matter, nor did his relationship with his son, not to Sam, not stacked up against his own need to save Dean, to get them both out of this forest, away from the deranged soldiers of fortune.

Stuffing the gun back into the waist of his pants, Sam, his eyes meeting his brother's, nodded his head and began to reach out, prepared to again wrap his arm around Dean's waist to support him. But Dean dropped the grip he had on his shirt and slipped out of his reach, suddenly shunning the help he had been accepting from his little brother for the past couple of hours. As Dean began walking away, Sam tried to squash down the hurt, to not catalogue Dean's distance as rejection. Quickly coming to Dean's side, he chanced a look to his brother's face, felt a tightening in his chest when he saw the closed look on Dean's expression. Whatever response Dylan's talk with his son had evoked in Dean it wasn't something Dean wanted to share, especially with him and, try as Sam might to let it go, it hurt.

Leaving Dylan behind, letting the man that had threatened his life, Sam's life, had imprisoned them, tortured them, it was easier than Dean imagined, was done without regret, without a burning need to make the man suffer for the pain he had shelled out. Sam was right, Dylan didn't matter, revenge didn't matter. What did matter was Sam, was doing what his father had asked him to do right before he gave up his life for his, had always asked him to do: take care of Sammy, keep Sammy safe, save Sammy. '_Crap I've done little to keep him safe these past few days. Instead it's been him saving me. He even had to carry me for pete sake! Yeah, good job on the big brother routine, Dean,'_ he chastised himself, stalking forward, shoving a limb out of his face only to grimace as his ribs shifted at the motion.

Not missing the flash of pain on Dean's face, Sam tried to skirt ahead of his brother, to take the lead, to clear the way for Dean. But Dean's hand shot out, wrapped around his bicep, stalled his passing maneuver.

Knowing just what was going through his little brother's head, Dean growled, "I got it," holding Sam back even as he quickened his own pace.

"Dean," Sam sighed in frustration.

"I said I got it," Dean snapped back, walking faster, taking the lead.

Desperate to regain the even footing he and Dean had had, Sam challenged, "So now you're siding with Dylan," knowing it was like dousing a bonfire with lighter fluid. He nearly ran into Dean when his brother stumbled to a stop and swung around, eyes flaring.

"What?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised, muscles taunt, poised for a verbal fight.

Standing toe to toe with Dean, Sam didn't back down, knew that the only way he could get Dean to talk to him when he was like this was to push, hard. "You think little brothers shouldn't have to save their big brothers right? Did it hurt your pride, having me take on Dylan instead of you?"

"Sam…" Dean began but Sam cut him off, his face set, determined, even as it was imploring.

"Dean, we protect each other, alright. You count on me to have your back in a hunt, why is this so different?" Sam asked, uncertain what the difference was, what rules Dean thought he had to follow.

"It just is," Dean shot back but Sam's hand around his wrist stopped him from turning away, from getting away.

"No, it's not Dean. You were in no condition to fight Dylan and we both know it! What, was I supposed to sit back, let you get hurt further just so you could protect your pride?" Sam incredulously demanded, wincing as he envisioned heaping the beating he had taken at Dylan's hands onto his already wounded brother.

"It's not about pride, Sam, it's about promises!" Dean cut himself off, looked away, clamped his jaw shut, wished he knew how to keep his mouth shut when Sam was trying his best to evoke the truth from him.

"To Dad," Sam quietly guessed, didn't need Dean's slight nod of his head to know he had hit the nail on the head. Drawing in a deep breath, Sam gently said, "This is about you promising to protect me, keep me safe?" Dean didn't react, didn't look to him but Sam knew he was right. "And you think you haven't done that?!"

Looking back to Sam with shame tinting his eyes, Dean quietly admitted, "Sam the past couple of days…."

"How about the past twenty four years, huh?" Sam posed, eyes glinting with gratitude and affection. "I think me trying to protect you for a few days is pretty poor payback for the twenty four years you've protected me. In fact, I think the least you can do is give me a few more days at it, help me knock off a few more IOUs I've wracked up…"

"You don't owe me…" Dean began to protest.  
"I didn't mean owe…I meant…I don't know, Dean. Just let me …" Sam bit his lip, uncertain how his brother would react if he said 'help you.' Though he dropped his eyes from Dean, he still found his words were still thick with emotion when he finally spoke, "You've never asked much from me, Dean. And when you have…" he swallowed, remembered Dean coming to Standford, asking him to help him track down their Dad, remembered Dean begging him to give him time to sort things out after he had confessed what their Father had said before he died. Facing Dean, eyes glimmering, Sam shook his head sadly, "I've let you down, man." Seeing the protest in the way Dean tilted his head, Sam insisted, "No, Dean, I have. But I don't want to let you down anymore, I don't want you shouldering everything anymore, letting yourself open to getting hurt..or worse. We're family, Dean and that means we face things together and protect each other and …."

"Take on bullies that are picking on your brother…" Dean smirked, a lightness returning to his eyes and tension dissipating from the set of his shoulders.

Sam gave a small chuckled, "Yeah, ok. But I think Dylan ranks a little higher than a bully rating."

Dean reached out, gently brushed his fingers across a bruise that was forming on his little brother's cheek, "Yeah, guy had some pretty nice moves." As a proud smile slid onto Dean's lips, he added, "but not nicer than yours." Dropping his hand he shook his head, "Remind me not to piss you off."

"So take your own advice, Dean. Don't piss me off by refusing my help, by pretending you're invincible and I'm weak," Sam earnestly said, enough of a worried plea in the undercurrent of his tone to steal any edge to his words.

Silence fell as Dean looked to his brother, saw the way Sam held himself still, waiting, dreading, hoping that his big brother wouldn't reject him, or his request. "I don't think you're weak, Sam." Seeing the flash of doubt in his brother's eyes, Dean declared, "And neither did Dad. We both just wanted to always protect you."

"Then respect my need to protect you, Dean," Sam countered evenly. And then the words that he had kept buried in his soul poured from him. "Respect Dad's decision to save you."

Caught off guard, Dean couldn't speak, didn't know how to respond to his brother's appeal, knew that Sam wouldn't accept a deflection, not after the past couple of days they had endured together, where their emotions had been rubbed so raw. Backed into a corner, caring too much for Sam to truly ever shut him out, Dean offered up the truth, his voice rough as he spoke, "I'll try, Sam."

For a moment Dean feared his pledge would be rejected, that it was not enough for Sam. Feeling his chest tighten with dread, Dean was surprised that a fractional nod from his brother unleashed the coil of emotions constricting his breath. Felt like he had been given a gift when Sam's lips turned up into a somewhat sad but genuine smile. Opening his mouth to throw out a wisecrack to lighten the air between them, Dean instead froze as the quiet of the forest was shattered by the sound of a helicopter. Turning his look upon Sam, he said simultaneously with Sam, "Henricksen," a new fear sparking between them.

In the face of the newest threat stalking them, the Winchesters immediately abandoned their tête-à-tête and began walking again. Slipping his arm around Dean's waist without permission, Sam felt any lingering doubt at his brother's acceptance of his actions vanish as Dean's arm was settled over his shoulders. Again maneuvering their way through the forest shoulder pressed against shoulder, Sam hazarded, "You think Henricksen's gonna believe Ricky when he says we're dead?"

"Not until he's standing over my corpse," Dean huffed back, arm again bracing his ribs, feet nearly tripping over the underbrush at their pace. Leaving unsaid, '_your corpse'_ because thinking it was bad enough, voicing it aloud just wasn't something he had the stomach to do. "Least we're not back there, caged up."

"Guess it was the right thing, us making our break today," Sam admitted, steering them around a larger tree, hand bracing Dean's chest as they stepped over a large downed tree trunk. Felt some measure of relief when the sound of the helicopter faded as it headed toward the camp.

"Wow, that's a rousing endorsement for my plan," Dean muttered, wishing his breath wasn't coming out of him so harshly.

"Plan is a strong word for '_let's shag butt out of here_'," Sam teased, tightening his hold on Dean's waist as they started down a sloped decline.

"Hey it…" but Dean broke off as Dylan's phone vibrated in his pocket. "Someone's calling Dylan," he said, eyes skimming briefly to Sam's as they kept moving down the hill.

"If he doesn't answer…" he started but a gunshot cut him off, caused him to dodge to his side and tackle Dean to the ground, sending them both crashing to the forest floor. "Now what?!" Sam snarled, arm thrown over Dean's chest, keeping his brother down as he raised his head, scanned their surroundings for the source of the threat. But the forest had again fallen silent and Sam couldn't detect any movement in the forest that encompassed them. Latching onto Dean's shirt with his right hand, Sam said, his face inches away from Dean's, "I can't see anything. We're pretty exposed here."

"I'm all for seeking cover. Seemed like there was pretty thick foliage at the bottom of this hill," Dean suggested, watched as Sam nodded his agreement but tightened his hold on his older brother's t-shirt.

"You ready to move?" Sam asked, muscles poised to pull Dean to his feet, to get them both to the bottom of the hill in the quickest way possible.

"Yup," Dean replied, trying to get his body geared for the motion, praying that he wouldn't be a fatal liability for Sam.

"Now," Sam growled as he pushed off the ground, simultaneously pulling on Dean's shirt, levering them both off the ground. Then they were pelting down the hill, side by side, Sam's arm having somewhere along the line snaked behind Dean's back.

Reflexively ducking when another gunshot echoed in the forest, Sam felt a small victory when no burning sensation of pain flared to life in any of his body parts. But a moment later, when the decline sharpened, he felt his feet slip on the leaves underfoot. Feeling his legs going out from underneath him, he was torn on whether or not to release Dean, wondering how far he should really take their "we're staying together" motto.

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TBC

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Well, there's the last cliffie of the story!

One more chapter to go!

Thanks so much for all of your wonderful reviews last chapter! I feel truly blessed by all of your steadfast support for this story! Hope the ending turns out to be worth the time you've put into the story.

Since I probably won't get to post again until after Christmas, I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas! Hope you get a gift that lets you know that someone really knows who you are down deep and cherishes that part of you that they've been privileged enough to see.

Have a great day!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Cheryl W.


	20. Betting Man's Bluff

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: First, I apologize! This story isn't wrapping up nice and neat the way I planned and I've rewritten the stuff seems like five times. In an effort to end the rewrites, to just show you that I'm still alive and still intend to finish the story, I'm posting this small chapter which is NOT the ending. To be honest, I'm not sure how many chapters will follow. Hope you can accept this small offering as a down payment. Also, I'm crossing my fingers that it's not lousy, considering how many times I've tweaked it! (And all mistakes are mine…my Beta checked this three rewrites before and I didn't have the heart to make her read it again!)

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Chapter 20: A Betting Man's Bluff

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Reflexively ducking when another gunshot echoed in the forest, Sam felt a small victory when no burning sensation of pain flared to life in any of his body parts. But a moment later, when the decline sharpened, Sam felt his feet slip on the leaves underfoot. Feeling his legs going out from underneath him, he was torn on whether or not to release Dean, wondering how far he should really take their "we're staying together" motto.

Surprised to find Sam releasing his hold on him, it only took Dean a moment to understand why. But before he could reach out and attempt to steady his brother, his own boots started to lose their purchase on the soil underfoot. "Crap," he cursed, his grasping hand meeting air instead of Sam's arm as his brother's feet went totally out from under him. Helplessly he watched Sam crashed onto his back and begin to slide down the hill.

Between his own precarious traction and his flailing motion to catch Sam, not to mention his body's present prejudice against equilibrium, Dean knew his own ungraceful descent was inevitable. Choosing the better part of valor, he gave up the fight and arched himself backwards as his feet shuffled on the forest floor. Landing unceremoniously onto his back, Dean had his breath knocked from him even as a new wave of merciless pain nearly had him blacking out. '_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe_!' he ordered himself, railed at his body to obey him.

Bred as he was to be a soldier, Dean's conditioning had him taking in his surroundings, judging the vulnerability of his new position, even when he was clinging to consciousness by his fingertips. So amid his pain and starved lungs, more good news registered, namely that he was almost totally exposed, that only a medium sized tree stood as a barrier between him and the shooter.

The bullet that, a second later, ricocheted off the rock by his head mocked the very idea that the tree was any sort of descent protection. However, the attack was surprise enough to jumpstart his lungs, to allow him to force in a breath like an asthmatic. With his breathing resuming, Dean scrambled toward the closest tree on all fours. He barely moved fast enough to avoid the next bullet from taking off the fingers of his right hand.

Crawling to the base of the tree, Dean pressed his back against the tree trunk. His breath coming hard, Dean rolled his head to the right, looked to the bottom of the hill, frantically sought out the sight of his brother's too tall form. Not locating Sam, Dean felt panic start to constrict his throat, was about to worriedly call out his brother's name when he saw movement in the underbrush at the base of the hill. Then, like some leaf constructed monster, Sam emerged from the forest floor, leaves tangled in his brown hair and clinging to his shoulders, chest and arms.

Not even bothering to try and dislodge the leaves that were stuck to him, Sam lumbered forward to the edge of the hill, his eyes greedily seeking out Dean on the slope above. Finding his brother pressed against a tree trunk a few feet up the hill, relief and worry warred in Sam. It took none of Sam's extensive training to know Dean was pinned down. Sam certainly didn't need proof in the form of the bullet that sank into the bark of the tree that his brother was using as cover.

Reacting instinctively to Dean's vulnerability, Sam called, "Dean! Here!" Making sure he had Dean's attention, Sam sent the gun arching through the air across the distance that separated him from his brother. But even before the gun was half way on its journey, Sam knew his toss wasn't going to make its mark. Cursing internally, Sam felt dread coil in him when the gun thunked into the ground a few inches up the hill from Dean's position, well beyond the cover of his brother's tree…of any tree. "Don't!" Sam fearfully shouted an instant before Dean dove out from the cover of the tree toward the gun, his desperate hands reaching for the weapon.

Terrified that Dean had made himself an unabashed target, Sam, with an inarticulate shout, sprinted, not up the hill but forward where the trees were sparse, where no cover existed, where he would make the easier, closer target of the two Winchesters. As he exposed himself, his heart pounded, not at his own defenselessness but Dean's, Sam prayed that the shooter would take the bait, would focus on him instead of his wounded, obstinate, reckless brother.

Dean's grasping fingers were finally wrapping around the barrel of the gun when Sam's shout of frustration and desperation echoed through the forest. '_What the heck_…' he internally groused, uncertainty and fear stirring at the prospect of what his brother's shout signified. In a blur of motion, he pulled the gun into his hand. But before he dove back behind the cover of the tree, the shooter took his shot. A shot not meant for him, a shot that extorted a startled cry of pain from Sam.

Fear froze Dean's blood, sent his heart skittering to a halt before it began to race in his chest. "Sam!" he shouted, his fear and desperation palpable in his brother's name. But instead of hearing Sam's voice, the only reply to his shout was the ringing echo of another gunshot. And with that sound, Dean felt cold fury override his own survival instincts, his father's training, everything. Clambering to his feet, he stepped from behind the cover of the tree. With his jaw set, the gun tightly clutched into his hand like the natural fit it was, he advanced forward, vowing to kill whoever had hurt Sam, had maybe taken his brother away from him forever.

Forsaking his last source of cover, Dean stalked out into the clearing, saw, for the first time, the shooter's position in the trees on the other side of the open strip of ground. Gun raised, sighted, Dean didn't falter in his steps as he pulled the trigger, saw his bullet bury itself in the bark of the tree, half an inch by their attacker's head.

As the man flinched back behind the tree, Dean caught the glint of the man's graying hair in the morning light. When, a second later, the assailant blindly squeezed off a shot from behind the tree, Dean didn't even react as the bullet zinged by him. Instead, he relentlessly kept coming forward, because in that moment, nothing mattered but avenging the hurt done to his brother.

Aggravated at having the tables turned on him, at finding himself pinned down, Chase leaned out from around the tree, exposed himself to take his next shot. Before he could unleash the bullet that he had targeted for Dean's forehead, a searing pain flared in his right shoulder even as the impact of the bullet spun him around. Landing face first into the ground, his body jarred at the unforeseen collision with the forest floor so soon after the trauma of the bullet, Chase cursed as his weakened fingers lost their grip on the gun, allowed the weapon to fall on the ground just outside his fingers' grasp.

Walking forward, his pace determined but unhurried, Dean sent a bullet sinking into the ground inches from Chase's reaching fingers. Halting at Chase's feet, he resighted the gun onto Chase's forehead, felt the cool metal of the trigger shift under his finger's pressure. But then Dean's head snapped left as he sensed movement. Knee buckling relief poured over him when Sam emerged from the underbrush, more leaves tangled intricately in his hair and clinging to his clothing but his brother was alive, was on his feet, was moving. "Where you hit?" Dean demanded, not caring how worried he sounded, not after he had feared the worst, had thought they had survived against innumerable odds the past couple of days only for him to lose Sam when they were so close to being safe. His eyes raking over his little brother's form, Dean sought out his brother's wound for himself.

"I wasn't hit," Sam quietly countered, with a causal shrug of shoulders. Stepping forward, he picked up Chase's gun before he came to stand at Dean's side. Feeling his brother's intense gaze locked on him, Sam faced Dean, saw his brother's confusion and raised eyebrows and couldn't fight the smile that slipped onto his features. "Thought we needed a little distraction. And with Chase, nothing works better than a boast to his ego." At Dean's surprised expression, Sam laughed, "Hey, you're not the only con man in the family."

"You gave me a friggin' heart attack," Dean growled, eyes lancing into Sam's, his gun still steadfastly trained on Chase.

Refusing to cower under his brother's reprimand, Sam countered heatedly, tossing his own anger and fear into the mix, "Yeah, well so did your gunslinger routine. What did you think you were doing, breaking cover?!" his arms gesturing, fingers pointing, his body language expressed his emotions almost loudly as his words.

"Me?! You broke cover first," Dean shot back, turning a quarter inch in his stance, using his physical presence to back up his accusation.

"No, you did when you reached for the gun," Sam steely refuted even as he stepped away from Dean, roughly patted Chase down for more weapons, indifferent to the soldier's grunt of pain when he jostled his wounded shoulder. Pulling the soldier's cell phone, wallet, handcuffs and car keys from his pockets, Sam drew back to Dean's side.

Both brothers watched dispassionately as Chase rolled over onto his back and struggled into a seated position, slid backwards until his back rested against a tree. Bestowing an arctic glare upon the Winchesters, Chase snarled, "If you kill me, you'll bring more trouble down on your heads than you can handle."

The ex-soldier's threat caught Dean funny, made him smile. He couldn't help but break into a small chuckle as his eyes slid to Sam, saw a smirk turning up his brother's lips. Dean swung his look back to Chase, offered up a smirk and a tilt of his head as he jeered with incredulousness instead of menace, "Dude, you would wet your skivvies if you knew the kinda of trouble we have coming down on us."

"I should have wasted both of you the first time I laid eyes on you," Chase sneered, eyes filled with hatred shifting from Sam to Dean. Silently he cursed himself for not heeding Dylan's advice to not underestimate these particular prisoners, to never let down his guard with them, to not allow his ego to blind him to the deadliness that Dylan sensed under their demeanors, especially the injured guy's. Knew how mistaken he had been to write off Dean, knew it in the pit of his stomach when the man had stood over him, gun aimed at his head, finger tightening on the trigger with a look in the younger man that was void of mercy. But then Dean's brother had crawled out from under the rock he had cowered under and the older brother's look morphed, was tempered by relief but not necessarily mercy.

Shrugging off Chase's remorse at not having killed them when he had the chance, Dean allowed, "Yeah, well, take a number." With the gun still unwaveringly aimed at Chase's head, he glanced quickly to Sam and jerked his head toward Chase. Watching as Sam stepped behind the tree Chase leaned against, Dean felt some satisfaction as the soldier grunted in pain when Sam pulled his injured arm backwards to wrap around the tree. Dean didn't fight the smile that crept onto his lips as the handcuffs snapped into place around Chase's wrists, secured the man to the tree.

When Sam came again to stand at his side, Dean used the gun to gesture at the massive bruising on Chase's right cheek where Sam had cold cocked him with the lug wrench the day before. "That looks painful," he offered with false sympathy. "Sammy, I can't believe you did that to our buddy Chase," sliding his smug look from Chase to Sam.  
"You shot him," Sam casually accused, joining in on his brother's smart aleck goading. But there was an underlying cold detachment in his tone and the eyes he leveled at the bound man glittered with malice.

Reading the hatred in the younger Winchester's eyes, Chase had to reevaluate his chances of living, of talking these two men out of putting a bullet into his skull. He had somehow thought the younger brother would stay his brother's hand, would be willing to offer him mercy where the elder would not. But seeing the look in Sam's eyes, Chase felt his fear evolve into terror. There would be no help from that quarter, not after he had repeatedly hurt and threatened his older brother in the past days.

"Yeah, but that's manly, getting shot. But getting cold cocked by a lug wrench.." Dean shook his head. "That's weak, man." Settling his eyes back upon Chase, he counseled, "If you want my advice…when you tell the story in prison, say like….seven guys jumped you. Make it seem like you went down fighting instead of like a glass jawed pansy."

"Advice on how not to be a pansy from the guy who begged Dylan like a little boy?" Chase snorted back derisively. "That's funny actually," enjoying the shift in Dean's eyes from anger to shame. "_Please don't kill my brother_," he mocked, breaking out into bitter laughter. "But hey, you're the one who has to live with that, not me." But it wasn't Dean who replied to his taunt.

"Yeah and maybe you won't live at all," Sam ground out, bringing Chase's own gun to bear on the ex-soldier's chest. His eyes unflinchingly cold as they bore into Chase's over the barrel of the weapon, Sam cocked the gun. Hating that Dean had been made to beg for his life, repulsed that this man had been witness to it, Sam wanted badly to eliminate this spectator to his brother's humiliation. He wanted to erase the shame Dean would bear because of the measures he had been forced to take to save his life.

Sensing Sam's barely restrained lethalness, Dean reached out with his left hand and laid it on top of the barrel of the gun Sam held. The gesture granted him Sam's eye contact, allowed Dean's eyes to convey sentiments to his brother that couldn't be uttered, wouldn't be uttered, not with Chase there: '_I'll handle this_" and '_They didn't take anything from me that I wouldn't willingly give again._'

However, Dean didn't let the '_to save you'_ qualification slip into his eyes. Knew that that truth Sam would object to, that such an admission would only add further guilt to his brother's too heavy load. So, instead, Dean changed gears, let a teasing light spark to life in his eyes, permitted his taunts of, '_Chill, I got this'_ and '_I'm the belligerent one, remember_,' to be easily detectable to his brother's perceptive gaze. Felt some measure of relief when Sam's eyes lightened and he lowered Chase's gun to hang loosely at his side.

Turning his attention fully back to Chase, Dean gave a smirk and shook his head as if to say '_little brothers, what can you do_?' "Now I think we were talking about you begging for your life."

"Forget it," Chase snarled, body tense, ready for the bullet that he knew might follow his refusal. But Dean's smile told him that his preparation for the bullet had been visible, had given the younger man some sick satisfaction. When Dean lowered his gun, Chase knew he had been played, that his unconfessed fear had maybe been the point of the two men's skit. "You better keep looking over your shoulder because one day I'll be there and you'll be dead before you hit the ground," he hissed out his threat, eyes on Dean, every ounce of his hatred pouring off him as he leaned forward, fought against the cuffs that held him back from taking his revenge right there.

But where Chase expected anger to surface, only a smirk emerged on Dean's face. "Hey I would look forward to that because, the way I keep on the move, I don't usually get to have reunions. Trouble is…" he began and then he crouched down by Chase's feet and lifted the man's jean's cuff to reveal a hidden knife.

Watching Dean uncover the knife, Sam silently cursed himself for not finding that weapon when he 'disarmed' Chase.

Pulling the knife free of its hiding place, Dean offered up a smiled, 'thanks' before he continued in a stage whisper, "…I bet Sam here," and he jerked his head toward Sam, "that you wouldn't make it out of the woods alive. I mean, what with you losing all that blood and then there's the buffet you will make for the creatures out here. What'd we see yesterday? Couple of wolves and two bears?" he asked of Sam.

"Mountain lion too…" Sam threw in, fought hard to keep his mirth at his brother's con from slipping free.

Dean snapped his fingers, "Oh yeah, the mountain lion. Crap that thing was eyeing us up…made me glad I wasn't bleeding everywhere, handcuffed to a tree."

"You think this is the worst situation I've had to get out of?" Chase scoffed, remembering a few military missions that went sideways in a bad way.

"Nope," Dean allowed. "But I have money down that it'll be your last. Funny thing is, since my wallet's gone and we just lifted your billfold, I figure I'll place my bet with your money. Guess then it's a win-win situation for you, right? I mean, especially since you're a betting man and all," he sneered and began to stand up, was equal parts annoyed and grateful when Sam's hand wrapped around his bicep, that it was his brother's strength that aided him to his feet and kept him from swaying.

"So your truck, I think it's this way, right?" Sam asked congenially, as if Chase had purposefully offered his truck to them as their escape vehicle, pointing in the direction where he figured the lane that led back to the county road was located. "Man, am I glad you showed up. It would have been a grueling hike without your help."

"Screw you," Chase snarled but his curse only earned him smirks from the two Winchester brothers. And then the brothers were turning away, had to lean on one another to make progress but they were leaving him behind, bleeding and bound to a tree in the middle of the forest. "We broke you!! You won't be able to forget that!!" he shouted after them, got in the last barb he could.

Acting as if the cut was directed at him, that the weakness only applied to him, Dean didn't slow his already slow pace at Sam's side, didn't even bother to turn around to face Chase but simply made sure he spoke loud enough for his words to carry back to Chase. "Don't flatter yourself…I was broken long before you came along. Good luck making friends with Yogi the Bear."

Hurling out curses at their backs, Chase felt the forest close in on him as the Winchesters soon disappeared into the dense forest at the base of the hill. Casting furtive glances around him, he tried to get his heart to stop racing, for his ears from straining for any sounds that might herald a predator's approach. Was forced again to remember just how much he had always hated solitary forest maneuvers in the military…and getting bested by lesser men.

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Again, I hope this small chapter had some merit to it.

Other chapter(s) and the ending to this story which will tie up things and work to patch up the boys will follow as soon as my muse and I stop duking it out.

And as always, I valued every review for last chapter! Your encouragement keeps me posting this story!

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.

8


	21. Fractured Freedom

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Just a heads up… I'm back to my lengthy chapter format.

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Chapter 21: Fractured Freedom

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Determined to conceal the true extent of Dean's weakness, Sam had made his outward support of his brother minimal under Chase's callous scrutiny, had reciprocated Dean's loose grip around his waist with one of his own. They had left the field of battle together, unabashedly weary but undeniably victorious.

Though the victory had come at a cost, it was not nearly the one it could have been. Sam was still thanking God for having mercy on foolhardy older brothers who envisioned themselves to be Wild Bill Hickok…or Butch Cassidy. No, the cost had not been his brother's life or his own but there was no denying the virtually debilitating exhaustion that had settled over his brother, the vanishing of the color Dean had had that morning or the exertion it took for his brother to maneuver over the snares of underbrush and downed tree limbs along their journey.

Without permission or forewarning, Sam drew closer to Dean, took more of his brother's weight into his care. Tensing, prepared for the fight that would follow his actions, Sam, at the void of objection at his coddling, quickly sought out his brother's face, tried to determine just how poorly Dean was feeling. Slowing his pace, slowing _their_ pace, he continued to assess Dean's features, felt some hurt that Dean purposefully didn't look his way, apparently didn't want to acknowledge his submission to his little brother's care any more than he had wanted to have Sam fight his battles for him.

Dean's show of stubbornness, of pride was an inconsistency to his submission to Sam's aid, conflicted with his admission to Chase. An admission that Sam couldn't keep from ringing in his head: '_I was broken long before you came along._' Sam remembered flinching at his brother's words, instantly wanting to refute Dean's claim even as he acutely wanted to make the statement no longer true. But found he could do neither. Not then and not now. No, now he could only give Dean what he thought his brother needed, wanted, would just maybe accept: help negotiate the woods toward where they estimated Chase's vehicle sat, and a few minutes of silence in which Dean could gain some solace, could reinforce the walls Dylan, Chase and Sam himself had blitzed the past hour…the past couple of days.

And though Dean had accepted his help, it was his low voice which broke the silence between them a few minutes into their trek.

"How many times do I have to tell you to answer me when I call you?" Dean railed, eyes lifting to meet Sam's, the fear of that moment, at hearing Sam's cry of pain, of receiving only silence for his panicked shout of his brother's name still thrumming in him, fading but not yet gone. "You scared the crap out of me," he surprised himself by saying aloud, though his words seemed more an accusation than an admission to weakness.

"Yeah," Sam scoffed, a near sad laugh, "like I have the market on being the one offering up the most scares this job."

"This is not a job," Dean shot back, refusing to categorize the last few days as time put into one of their normal gigs, not when everything had gone so royally wrong. Not when it made his gut clench in dread at that thought that maybe it was a sign that they were losing their edge, were becoming incompetent, ineffectual at the skills that kept them alive, kept them a few steps ahead of the law and whatever else wanted to hunt them down and kill them.

"Started out as one…" Sam contradicted, an edge of anger in his tone, finding himself unwilling to let the issue drop.

"You got something to say, just say it?" Dean prompted, matching Sam's anger. But his brother's next words, the quiet hurt in his brother's tone, blindsided him.

"If it had been you and Dad hunting that wolf, would you have gone into the Simmon's shed behind his back?" Sam poised softly because he didn't want the words to hurt, to reopen wounds that were still raw for his brother. When Dean's face took on that stoic mask and he looked away, Sam had his answer like it was shouted from the trees. "No, you wouldn't have, Dean," Sam quietly voiced, "and I don't know if that was out of respect for Dad, or fear, or trust or…" but he couldn't say 'love', had always felt that, to their family, love was a taboo word, a word others used but never them.

"Sam," Dean quietly drawled, knew it came out imploring but he had to stop Sam's words, to filter out the reaction that wanted to surface in him, the introspect he didn't want to make, not about this, not about why he had always so blindly followed their father.

"I'm not saying I deserve the respect you gave Dad or anything…that's not what I'm saying," Sam stammered, ashamed that his prior words had maybe implied that. "I know I'm not as good of a hunter as Dad or you but I'm doing the best I can."

"Sam.." Dean tried again to interrupt, to refute Sam's claims of inadequacy but his brother didn't let him continue.

"But we make a good team, you and I. You said so yourself after Jericho. And that's all I'm asking from you, Dean, for us to be a team in every situation. For you to trust me to always have your back, regardless that I'm your little brother," Sam said, feeling inexplicably vulnerable at having voiced his entreaty.

"Dude, I do trust you to have my back," Dean insisted but his eyes had scampered away from Sam, had become fixed on the path ahead.

"But you want to choose when that happens, right? When you think things won't escalate out of control, won't put me in more danger?" Sam challenged with sad regret. With a resigned, frustrated shake of his head, he looked away from his brother's profile. Felt again that he had come up against a brick wall with Dean…like he had after their father had died. '_Crap, Dean, I don't want that silence between us again_.' Knew that it was a miracle that Dean wasn't shaking off his support right then, wasn't severing their physical connection, was still allowing him to keep them moving forward, both of them.

"Sam, I've hunted on my own. I don't need you backing me up 24/7 on every aspect of every job," Dean heatedly tossed back, offended that Sam thought he needed a babysitter. But seeing the jump in Sam's jaw, having already lost Sam's eye contact, Dean knew his words had wounded Sam, had reinforced his brother's earlier claim that his ego couldn't stand the notion of his younger brother saving his life.

Drawing to a stop, Dean knew Sam's simultaneous halt had more to do with Sam's submission to his wishes than his diminished strength having the ability to override his little brother's strength at the moment. But Sam's obvious loyalty only heaped more guilt onto Dean's head. "Listen Sam, we are a team, alright. But splitting up on some jobs, someone taking the greater risk, that's just how things work best," Dean qualified but Sam's eyes, as they swung to meet his own, were still dark with objection and hurt. "That's how Dad and I did it. He wasn't there holding my hand, Sam."

His stance straightening, Sam retorted tightly, "I never thought he was," unable to keep the bitterness from being evident in his tone or able to dam the fast moving undercurrent of judgment running under his words. Dean was the one who had always viewed their father through rose colored glasses, not him.

"Yeah, well, then let's not fix what's not broken," Dean mumbled, turning away, ready to walk away.

Hearing Dean using the word 'broken', it made Sam cringe, made him admit that Dean hadn't lied to Chase, that his brother could have been answering for him as well as for himself. Dean was broken, _he_ was broken but they weren't beaten, not yet, not when they still had each other. And Sam was determined to find a way to keep them together. "It is broken, Dean," Sam firmly stated, glad that Dean turned again to him, eyebrows raised in question, relieved that his brother wasn't discounting his words. "I'm not Dad, I can't just …" he drew in a steadying breath, tried to get the right words to come.

"What?" Dean asked quietly, compassion in his eyes instead of impatience.

"I can't just shrug off you getting hurt, Dean. I can't stop second guessing myself, wondering how things would have turned out if I had done something differently…if you weren't treating me like someone you had to protect," Sam confessed, even as scenario after scenario ran through his head of the past few days…of the past few years, of Dean getting hurt, getting hurt going first, stepping in front of him to protect him, of Dean nearly dying. "And I know, you're right, that I haven't always acted like your partner……but I've always been your brother, Dean. And that means if something happens to you…." His voice caught at even the thought, at the too close calls his brother had had in the past couple of days.

Suddenly Sam felt anger flare in him, at his brother's recklessness, at his blindness to his importance to him. "If something happens to you, Dean, I'm not going to be running an ad in the paper for a new partner! I'm not going to go trolling the Roadhouse for your replacement! We're brothers, Dean. Before we're hunters, before we're John Winchester's sons, we're brothers. It's what matters the most, what's kept us alive not just the past couple of days but our whole lives. And I can't just put that connection aside when we hunt, I won't."

Gripping Dean's right arm, needing to make sure he had his brother's undivided attention, Sam said what had become so clear to him the past few days. "We're more than a team, we're family. Not commander to soldier but partners, and not father to son but brothers, equally set on protecting each other."

When Dean looked about to protest, Sam's grip tightened on his brother's arm and his voice raised with his emotions. "When you take foolish risks, you risk us both, Dean. Because losing a partner I could get over, losing my brother…" Sam shook his head. "Protecting me means you have to protect yourself Dean. Stop taunting thugs like Dylan to shoot you so you can protect me, give me an escape plan. Because you know what, I wouldn't have left you, Dean. We're in this _life _together." His breath heaving after his outburst, Sam dropped his hold on Dean's arm only to set them both back in motion, again setting a course for Chase's truck, for freedom.

Silence fell between them and it was a few minutes before their eyes clashed, one anticipatory, the other contemplative.

Adept at reading Sam, Dean could see the hurt still lurking in his brother eyes, could feel the tension radiating off of his brother's stance. And it was then that he knew that protecting Sam, being the lead hunter was fine, was admirable, until those things hurt Sam, hurt the person he was trying to keep out of harm's way. With his Father's sacrifice for him searing into his soul with his every waking moment, Dean cursed himself for not recognizing that truth sooner. Sometimes being loved, being protected, being saved hurt worse than being hated, being lost, even being broken.

"Yeah, guess so," he allowed quietly, his words would have been accompanied by a shrug of his shoulders or a hand brushing through his hair had either gesture not been beyond his meager energy's stockpile. Unable to downplay his submission with any carefree body language, Dean hesitantly met Sam's eyes.

Unprepared for his brother's capitulation, for an easily won victory, Sam stood there, looking at Dean, waiting for his brother to rescind his words, to turn the tables on him. When he only read honesty in his brother's features, he stammered, "Good. Right. 'kay," failing miserable to make it seem like he had always known the victory would be his in the end.

"Can we put away the tissues now, Sam, and high tail it out of here? You know, beat feet, am-scram, hasta la vista?" Dean taunted with put upon frustration.

"Ah…yeah…**Yeah**," Sam agreed with a shake of his head, still struggling to get over Dean's submission to his terms. "Let's get out of here," he said, repositioning his hold on Dean's torso and starting them forward again, toward Chase's car, toward freedom. But Sam couldn't help wondering how long the new mandates would hold…until he was in danger, until Dean felt he needed again to shoulder more weight to retain his big brother standing, or only until Dean's full strength returned and his barriers were once again fully operational.

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Reaching the dirt road was a bittersweet victory when they didn't spot Chase's vehicle along the visible expansion of roadway. Exchanging matching looks of '_like we thought it was gonna be that easy_', the brothers started walking parallel to the road, far enough back from the road to not be seen and yet be able to sight the truck if they came upon it, _when_ they came upon it.

It was another twenty minutes of trudging through the underbrush, ducking tree limbs and Sam struggling to keep Dean upright and moving before they found what they had been looking for: A decent means to escape. Chase's mud splattered truck was angled off the road, allowing the dirt path to still be a two way.

Unable to remember ever before being so grateful to see a vehicle that wasn't the Impala, Dean tiredly drawled, "If this is a mirage, don't spoil it for me, Sammy," as he and Sam pushed through the foliage toward the road and the truck.

Not offering up a rejoinder, Sam, instead, concentrated on using his ebbing strength to get Dean to the passenger side door, to get them one step closer to getting out of this nightmare once and for all. Touching the metal of the truck's frame, Sam felt like he had won a marathon, had slipped into the safety zone of a kid's game of kick the can, had won a particularly grueling game of war. It was only the fear and tension seemingly fused into his spine after the nightmarish last couple of days that kept him from leaning against the side of the truck, sliding down its metal frame and claiming a seat on the side of the road. But they weren't safe yet, not with the foreboding helicopter making its earlier flyby, not with the chance that some of Dylan's other men might still be straggling back to camp.

As he and Dean lurched like two drunks to the side of the truck, Sam leaned Dean carefully beside the passenger door. His shoulder, hip and left hand kept Dean upright and securely pressed against the metal frame as he sought to open the passenger side door. He found the act of raising his hand to akin to having one hundred pound weights shackled to each wrist. Even accomplishing that levitating trick, his hands still tingling from the punches he had thrown, he silently cursed the clumsiness of his fingers as they pulled up on the door handle.

Finally getting the door open, Sam looked worriedly to Dean. His stomach and heart reeled at the sight of his brother compliantly standing there, propped up by his little brother, dirt and exhaustion and pain layered upon him in varied degrees, made stark by the fact that Dean's eyes were shut. Settling his right hand back upon Dean's chest, Sam quietly beckoned, "Dean."

"Mmmhh," Dean hummed a reply before he managed to pry his eyes open. After getting a close up view of Sam's worried creased face, it registered with him that the truck door was open, that Sam was waiting for him to move. "Yeah… right," he murmured. Putting his feet in motion to shuffle the two steps to the left, Dean didn't even voice an objection when his brother gave him a well placed shove that levered him up into the seat.

Once all of Dean's limbs were in the vehicle, Sam shut the door and did a weak jog around to the driver's side door, hand already withdrawing the keys from his pocket that he had confiscated from Chase. Sliding behind the steering wheel, Sam immediately started the vehicle and set it in motion. Doing a U turn on the dirt lane, he sent the truck bounding back to civilization.

As the rough terrain jarred his every ache and pain, Sam grimaced, not for his own pain but for Dean's, for the pain he imaged it was causing his brother. For half a second, his foot eased on the gas before, clamping his jaw tightly in bitter resolve, he resettled his foot heavily onto the gas pedal. He couldn't let his compassion override his survival instincts, certainly couldn't let it hamper his determination to get Dean somewhere safe, to keep him alive, to ensure he never saw the inside of a Federal prison.

"I thought he shot you…" Sam said, his raw voice almost echoing in the small confines of the truck, his hands tightening their white handed grip on the steering wheel, his burning eyes on the path ahead.

"Ditto," Dean deflected tiredly, eyes scanning their surroundings for dangers all the while wishing he could settle his head back on the head rest and sleep for a thousand years.

"Dylan…I thought he shot you …you know, when we were fighting for the gun….I thought my vision…." Sam broke off, had to, couldn't continue to grab enough air for words, not around the emotion he refused to unleash. Not when he knew Dean wouldn't want it unleashed, that it would do nothing to help them now, would only be a distraction they couldn't afford right then.

Looking to Sam in surprise, Dean felt his emotional "keepouts" falter at his brother's anguished profile. Dean cursed silently, because his kid brother had been through enough, didn't deserve to have nightmares let alone visions of people dying, of him dying. He didn't want Sam to ever bare that weight alone, knew it was wrong to not offer Sam some comfort when he had feared the worst, had woken up thinking his brother was dead only to have that fear nearly come true only an hour later. "Hey, I know how to hit the deck, Sammy," Dean gently reassured, letting it sound like a joke, not wanting to give away how close a call it had been, how nearly a reality Sam's nightmare had been. When Sam's searching eyes met his, only cocky strength was there, that and a tender regard Dean didn't hide from Sam, not after the crappy days they had endured.

"You're not hit?" Sam quietly asked, eyes flickering from road to brother.

"You want to frisk me again?" Dean teasingly offered, his eyebrows raised, his lips turning up into a true, if small smile for Sam. "Cause I gotta say, you're kinda a brute, Sammy. I can see why you chose to be a lawyer instead of a doctor."

A measure of fear seeped from Sam's eyes and he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. His laughter was short but real. "You know, you're an ungrateful jerk."

"Yeah, whatever," was Dean's reply as he returned his attention back to searching the road ahead and the forest that flanked them…but not before Sam saw the twinkle in his eyes.

Primed for trouble, for every turn to reveal a Federal roadblock or one of Dylan's men driving their way, Sam felt tension humming through every nerve in his body. So it was almost anticlimactic when he pulled the truck to a halt at the edge of the dirt path, the state road to the town inches from the truck's tires only to find the road desolate, the landscape void of police cruisers, Dylan's work trucks or even another vehicle. "Huh," the brothers grunted at the same time in surprised thankfulness.

Shooting a furtive glance to Dean, Sam steeled himself for the argument to come. Drawing in breath, he coached himself to keep his voice gentle but firm, to make Dean see the logic of what he was saying. "Dean, we can't…" When Dean's eyes met his, Sam swallowed. "It's too risky to…." but his words faded away when Dean swung his look to the right, toward town, where somewhere the Impala sat, waiting for them, waited _for him_.

Fighting back the clench in his chest, Dean wiped the regret from his features before he faced Sam again. "Just get us out of here, Sammy," he ordered, hated that his voice was brisk, that it hinted at the turmoil underneath his armor. Hated his slip up worse when Sam flinched, as if it were his fault somehow that their lives required sacrifices.

"It's OK, Sammy. I'll get her back," he cockily reassured, wishing he felt it was the truth. '_When has something that I've loved and lost ever been returned to me?_' he bitterly thought a moment before Sam spoke.

"_We'll_ get her back. I promise, Dean," Sam vowed, knowing that he had to restore the Impala to his brother, that part of what kept his brother together when the world was breaking him was that car, the memories permeating the air of the interior, the feel of the steering wheel in his hands.

Suddenly Dean felt foolish and ungrateful. Sam had been returned to him, had left a time or two but had come back, was there beside him looking at him with affection and hope and resolve. "Of course we'll get her back," he agreed as if there had been no doubt, his tender regard for his brother unmasked in his gaze. Settling his head back against the head rest, he let his eyes slip shut. "Wake me when it's my turn to drive."

'_Like I'm going to let you drive_,' Sam snorted internally his eyes on his brother's worn features, battered body. Then smiling tiredly, he pulled from the dirt path unto the road. But he couldn't stop his eyes from slipping to the rearview mirror, knew, not for the first time, that a part of himself was wired into the Impala, the part of him that loved his brother, that valued whatever Dean valued.

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They were two states over when the noon sun was beating down onto the arm Sam had resting outside the driver's side window. Thanks to Dylan's credit card, Sam had been able to unobtrusively stand at the pump of a desolate mom and pop gas station two hours into their trek to fill their gas tank. Had not bothered to go in to retrieve the bathroom key with the notoriously gaudy keychain, had instead picked the bathroom's lock.

Using his sleeve to try and clean up the mirror, he had found that his reflection wasn't much improved by the mirror's missing dirt. He looked like crap, no two ways about it. Dirt, blood, bruises and the haunted look he couldn't quite wipe from his expression had stared back at him. '_I walk into somewhere looking like this, someone will either be calling the cops or an ambulance_,' he had sardonically thought. '_They get a look at Dean and it'll be the ambulance for sure_,' came to him unbidden, not funny but something he would have thrown out to taunt Dean…had his brother done more than snuggle closer to the passenger side door and wince in pain since they had left the dirt path of the work camp in their rearview mirror.

That thought had hardened Sam's expression, had made his eyes simmer with worry and regret. With determined motions, he had tried to make himself presentable, less a side show freak or a man who just lost a gladiator bout. The results weren't impressive but he knew they would minimize people's reaction to simply skirting out of his path and clutching their children tighter to their side.

Dean never reacted when Sam had climbed back into the truck, started the engine and pulled them back onto the road. Just like he had never sensed the long, worried inspection of his brother's eyes upon his too still form or felt the fingers that skimmed over his forehead before Sam got out of the truck to pump the gas.

Now hours later, parked outside a small shopping strip, Sam repeated the gesture, grimaced at the slightly fevered flesh under his fingertips but his worry was countered as Dean gave a small jerk and his green eyes fluttered open. Letting his fingers slid from Dean's forehead, Sam met his brother's somewhat blurry gaze unrepentantly.

Feeling as if he was coming out of a drug induced hibernation, Dean shook his head, hoped to jar everything back into frame. But all his action did was awaken fifty points of pain, most prominently the one spearing into his head. Pushing through the hurt, Dean used his legs to push himself straighter in the seat as he lifted his head from its uncomfortable resting place against the door's window. "What?' he croaked, rubbing a hand over his eyes before trying to scope out their surroundings.

"I'm going in for some supplies, clothing and some food. Have any requests?" Sam asked, tracking Dean's every movement.

"Nah," Dean delivered with a stretch that nearly turned his response into a moan.

Sam tensed, felt a need again to slip his fingers to Dean's forehead because Dean not offering up an opinion, nor demanding some specific food, it was unnatural, was down right alarming. "Hey, you alright?" he hazarded, head tilting to the side, trying to make his tone a mid way point between gentle and nonchalant, knew that he had to traverse a narrow path to get Dean to open up about being in pain.

"Yeah," Dean quickly replied, but when he met Sam's probing gaze he knew more was required, unless he wanted his little brother carting him into an emergency room. "I'm fine, Sam, a little stiff and rough around the edges but I'm not gonna be checking out anytime soon."

For a moment Sam said nothing, compared what Dean was professing to his own findings after he assessed the state his brother was in. After deciding that Dean wasn't lying, was downplaying his pain but on the whole, was telling the truth, Sam gave a silent nod of his head. Drawing in a breath he asked, "You have to go to the bathroom?"

"No, mom, I don't. 'Less you're taking me to the ladies room with you?" Dean shot back, his tone sharp enough to diminish Sam's anxiety that his brother was too hurt to be left alone in the car for any length of time.

Without any voiced misgivings, Sam hopped out of the truck and shut the door. Dean watched his brother use his long legs to eat up the distance between their out of the way parking spot and the entrance to the store. Rubbing a hand across his cheek, he scowled at the stubble, dirt and probably dried blood that he felt on his face. He eyed the sun-visor, contemplated flipping it down to see if a mirror lay on the other side but he barely raised his hand off of his lap before he abandoned the notion, his limbs feeling too heavy and realizing that not a single part of him cared how he looked at the moment. He and Sammy were alive and free and that was all that mattered.

But as his eyes slid over the truck's interior he knew that something else mattered, mattered when it shouldn't, mattered more than it should: The Impala. Dean didn't care how much Sam teased him about his unnatural attachment to the car, the vehicle was a part of him, a part of _them_, was a link to the past, a past Sam wanted to forget and Dean fought valiantly to always remember. It made Sam's vow to get his car back for him an even bigger deal.

Recalling his brother's pledge, startled laugher erupted from Dean. "Sam called the Impala 'her'," he said aloud, his tired voice echoing in the interior. With a smug smile turning up his lips, he settled back against the seat to wait for his brother's return, already scheming when he would taunt his younger sibling with this new blackmail material.

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Rapping his knuckles against the passenger window, Sam felt panic spike through him when Dean remained unresponsive. With trembling hands, he yanked open the door and had to catch his brother in his arms when Dean started pitching from the vehicle. "Dean!"

Jolted from the nightmare that had latched onto him, Dean gripped onto the shirt of the person who had grabbed him, was about to land a punch when his senses and sight came back online. Realizing that the arms wrapped around his torso belonged to Sam, a Sam who looked close to panicking, Dean released his grip on Sam's shirt and instead patted his brother on the chest, "How'd you make out pinching pennies, Martha Stewart?" he said around a yawn, attempting to pull back from Sam's hold.

"Come on. We're trading up," Sam replied cryptically, using his un-relinquished grip on his brother to pull Dean slowly but forcefully from the truck.

Now that the adrenaline rush that had kept him going doing the chase through the woods had been doused with his respite in the truck, Dean was ashamed to find his legs weren't prepared to take his weight. Valiantly he flung his hand back against the frame of the truck to try and support himself even as he staggered into Sam.

"Easy, I got ya," Sam reassured, stepping closer to his brother, tightening his hold on Dean's torso. Worry and reprimand stealing across his mind. '_Good job, Sam. Yanking him from the truck like that. He's hurt or have you forgotten. What?! Him_ _sleeping hours without moving and not caring what food you brought back wasn't enough of a red flag?! You need to get another look at him?! See the blood and the dirt and the pain he's trying hard to hide from you!?'_ "Dean, I'm sorry," he murmured but Dean was speaking at the same time.

"I got it," Dean grumbled. Locking his untrustworthy legs into place and pushing his hand off the truck's frame, he stood as straight as he could…with Sam's hands resting on his chest and the small of his back and his ribs feeling like they had taken a beating from a baseball bat wielded by a World Series hitter. "You said something about trading up?" he deflected, eyes not meeting Sam's, not wanting to see the sympathy there for his weak, helpless brother.

"I know it's the wrong year and color but I just thought…" Sam stammered. Then, keeping his hands tethered to his brother, he stepped to Dean's right side and revealed the car that he had liberated from the parking lot: a 2001 silver Impala. "We needed to ditch the truck anyway," he said into the silence, starting to feel foolish at his sentimental gesture. "I mean, I know you don't value your car because it's an Impala…" At Dean's raised eyebrows Sam scrambled to rectify his words, "Not like you don't want it to be an Impala or that it's not special because it's that model or..."

"Sammy," Dean quietly cut into Sam's explanation, earning him Sam's sheepish eye contact peeking out from underneath his brother's bangs. "Thanks. She'll do…. for the moment."

Sam's shy smile and bowed head was all the evidence Dean needed that he had said the right thing. When he stepped forward, Sam was there bracing him, opening the '01 Impala's passenger door and helping him sink into the seat. He watched Sam close his door before quickly skirting around the car and sliding into the driver's side.

Instead of putting the already running car into motion, Sam dug into the bag that he had positioned on the middle console. Extracting a water bottle, he promptly handed it to Dean even as his other hand pulled out first a bottle of painkillers and then a package of antibiotics swabs. Ripping open the box to the painkillers and removing the protective plastic on the bottle, he shook out three pills into his palm. "Here," he said, presenting the pills to his brother, who flashed him a look of protest that melted away the second he growled, "Dean…."

Sullenly, Dean picked up the pills and tossed them into his mouth, chased them with a swallow of water. But he couldn't help wishing that the chaser had some kick to it…like 80 proof alcohol because he was sick of the pain, of the exhaustion that his cat naps in the truck hadn't been able to diminish, wanted something to take the edge off, immediately. Watching Sam open the antibiotic swabs' box, seeing that Sam was even going so far as to open the first packet of swabs, Dean knew that his little brother was in full mothering mode and would not be deterred. Dean had witnessed this side of this brother before: after his heart-attack, after the car accident.

Holding onto the antibiotic pad by its corner, Sam held it out to Dean and timidly said, "Thought you could clean up a bit, try to look a little less like an extra from Resident Evil." Sam could acknowledge, even if it was just to himself, that his actions weren't all for Dean, weren't even about shaping what other people thought of his brother's appearance. No, his actions were about his need to see his brother's face, to not have the sight of the matted blood taint Dean's features, to taint _his_ perception of his brother, of Dean's stronger than life willpower, to mock Dean's usual mask of invulnerability. Sam needed to _see_ Dean, to not have his brother's features concealed behind the dirt covering his face, wanted to be able to gauge his brother's health without having to take into consideration the brown collage of dried mud and blood.

With disdain, Dean snatched the pad from his brother's fingers, glared at Sam when his brother flipped down the passenger's sun-visor to reveal a mirror. "You're going to make a great mother some day, Sam," he growled, swiping briskly at the dirt and blood, found he needed to clamp his jaw shut to not let out a grunt as his rough ministrations across his cut and bruised flesh spiked pain through his face. Gentling his actions, he managed to dislodge most of the dirt, grimaced as the antibiotic reacted to his open cuts. "Crap this stuff burns," he groused, pulling the pad back to give it a look of hatred.

"Means it's working," Sam interjected, quickly replacing the pad in Dean's hand for a new one, purposefully ignoring Dean's glare. Watching Dean dabbing at his cheek where some glass shards from the Simmon's cabinet still resided, Sam couldn't believe it was only a few days ago that they had come to the Simmons in search of the wolf terrorizing the county. It felt like years ago. When Dean crumbled the pad and tossed it onto the floor, Sam began, "Dean you missed…" pointing to the smear of blood by his brother's hair line.

"It's good enough," Dean snapped back, flipping the visor up and wincing as his arm and ribs protested his motions. Hearing his brother rustling another paper bag, Dean turned warily to Sam. What Sam handed him next had him raising his eyebrows at his brother.

At Dean's look, Sam sighed, had known that he would get flak for his choice. "It's chicken noodle soup, Dean. I'm sure you've heard of it?  
"Where…"

Wanting to get Dean past the grumbling stage, Sam cut him off, "Fast food joint in the strip mall," jerking his head to the place in question which was a few doors over from where they were parked.

"Does that mean there's a burger in that bag?" Dean asked, instilling hope in his tone when in truth, he wasn't that hungry, for anything.

"Soup first, then burger," Sam replied, just like he had rehearsed that he would at his brother's predicted protest. And he had been careful to keep his tone light, to not look at Dean when he said the words, to not sound worried, or nurturing or something else that would make Dean think his strength was being undermined, or doubted. Because of all the things in the world Sam doubted, his brother's strength wasn't one of them, not the strength of his brother's heart or of his willpower.

"Sam, I'm not sick with a cold…." Dean snapped back, hand reaching for the car door, intending to toss the soup out, to prove to Sam that he wasn't some weak, broken, charity case he had to mend, to treat with kid gloves…to save. '_Had to still save_,' Dean amended bitterly, unable to forget the innumerable times in the past few days that he had _needed_ Sam to save him, to mend him, had been glad Sam was treating him with kid gloves.

Cheeks flushing with shame, Sam ruthlessly pulled a burger from the bag and dropped it onto Dean's lap. Tossing the fast food bag out the window, Sam threw the car into gear and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He didn't bother to acknowledge that he nearly caused Dean to slosh the soup onto himself, tried hard not to acknowledge Dean's presence at all. '_Stupid jerk! I'm just trying to take care of him, like he's always taken care of me! Why does that always make him so mad?! I thought we were past this, him not letting me help him, have his back.'_

Chagrined that he had hurt Sam _again_ with his belligerent attitude, Dean lightly chastised, "Whoa Mario Andrei, I would like to eat the soup, not wear it." It earned him a quick glance from Sam, a question in his brother's dark eyes. Slurping up a spoonful of soup, Dean murmured, "Tastes good." Raising his eyes to meet Sam's, he hoped that his brother got the silent message he was trying to send.

When Sam's shoulders lowered and the white handed grip he had on the steering wheel eased, Dean knew his brother accepted his poorly offered apology. "You get something for yourself?" Dean asked, spoon halted half way to his mouth, big brother worry creasing his brow.

"Yeah," Sam mumbled lowly, like a child not wanting to make a confession.

"Ah…where's it at?" Dean pressed, saw Sam swallow in shame and he knew the truth. "It was in the bag, wasn't it? The bag you tossed out the window."

"I wasn't that hungry…." Sam deflected, feeling so foolish for letting his anger get the best of him, for letting Dean catch onto his goof up.

"Here," Dean ordered, holding the burger, _his_ burger out to Sam.

"No, I got that for you," Sam replied, purposefully keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

"It doesn't have my name on it, so take it," Dean returned, bumping Sam's arm with his outstretched hand which held his offering.  
With a shake of his head, Sam countered, "It has extra onions."

A longsuffering sigh escaped Dean as he was sharply reminded of how picky Sammy always was about his food. "So scrap them off. They weren't on the burger long so you'll hardly taste them, Sam," Dean said, unconsciously using the cajoling tone he had employed when they were kids and he was the household cook.

"Dean, you need…." Sam began, his voice gentle, imploring but he broke off his words, knew the dangerous ground he was treading upon. Showing concern, giving advice, caring about Dean had to be slight of hand, could only be blatant when Dean was too weak, too hurt, was too nearly _gone_ to protest. And crap Sam didn't want that, hadn't ever wanted that, remembered every single moment when Dean had unresistingly accepted his outwardly concern and help: when he arrived at the motel after his heart-attack, when Sam helped him to their father's deathbed, when Sam had pulled him away from the burning barracks. Clamping down on the flood of those memories, Sam mumbled, his voice low and struggling too hard to be unaffected, "I can stop somewhere later to get something."

For a moment Dean didn't respond, simply sat there, taking in Sam's profile, trying to identify the underlying current of emotions that his brother was emanating. The concern for him was a no-brainer but the fear came as a surprise to Dean. They were out of danger, well, as out of danger as they ever got, so his brother's apprehension seemed out of place. Finding himself at a loss of what to do next, how to erase his brother's uneasiness, Dean did what came naturally, he fought fire with fire. "If you're on a hunger strike, then so am I," he announced calmly, dropping the hamburger on the middle console and sitting the Styrofoam soup bowl down onto his lap.

Sam's head swiveled to Dean in surprised and objection, "What?! No, Dean just eat the soup and the burger."  
"Truth is, I'm not that hungry," Dean drawled, eyes meeting Sam's, letting his brother know that he wasn't going to back down, never did when it came to protecting Sam, even from himself. Not getting a response from Sam besides his brother's wide eyed stare, Dean said, "Guess I'll just toss the food out the window," as he put the electric window down. "Add to the littering fine we've got coming," he tacked on, lifting the soup bowl from his lap.

With a silent curse, Sam snagged Dean's arm, halted his brother's stupid blackmail tactics. "Alright! I'll eat the stupid burger," he muttered with undisguised ill grace at his defeated.

Smiling smugly, Dean presented the burger to Sam, almost pitied the sandwich when Sam's big paw ruthlessly snagged it from his hand and nearly crushed it in his tight grip.

Putting Dean's window up from his main control on his side of the car, Sam lowly negotiated, "We'll split it," dark eyes searing into Dean's protesting ones.

"I'm not eating after you!" Dean replied, as if they hadn't spent their lives stealing each other's food.

"You eat after me all the time! Any scrapes I leave on a plate you scarf up!" Sam called his bluff, voice rising at the absurdity of his brother's claim.

Caught off guard by the force of Sam's rebuke, Dean's rejoinder was quiet, almost tentative, as if he were testing the air, "Well…I've raised my standards."

"What standards?" Sam countered but it was more of a sullen come back than an accusation. Jaw jumping a moment with emotions he was trying to corral, Sam drew in a breath in the silence that fell, found his voice was soft, entreating when he spoke again. "Look, we're both exhausted and hurt," internally clarifying, '_you more than me'_, "and I know we have to put some more distance between us and the camp. But what I would _like _to do is stop at the next motel and get you…._us_ patched up," he amended, knowing he had to tread lightly, eyes noting that Dean had forgone disputing that he _needed_ patching up. "But without the Impala and our supplies, all I can offer you is some useless over the counter strength painkillers and a stupid meal from a fast food joint," Sam bitterly acknowledged, hands tightening on the steering wheel, feeling like such a failure as a brother, especially compared to someone as gifted in the being the best big brother department as Dean was.

Surprised at the pain and frustration in Sam's voice, Dean sat silently, hands fidgeting with the bowl of soup in his lap, struggling to figure out what to say to make things better for Sam. "Did Dylan jar something lose in your brain?" he taunted at last, head tilted to the side, eyes mockingly searing into Sam's startled expression. When Sam's eyes flew to his, Dean patiently pointed out, "You got us out of there, Sam! Who was the jerk who insisted on carrying me through the woods like a bag of rock salt, huh?" Sam smirked at that, surprised to find the terrifying event somehow funny, endearing now. "Who went ten rounds with Rocky "Dylan" Balboa?" Seeing Sam's smirk morph into a smile, Dean continued, "Getting me some painkillers, bringing me soup….that's just your way of getting back in touch with your feminine, nurturing side. It's a side of you I've just learned to live with…." He admitted with a dramatic sigh, purposefully turning his attention back to the soup, slurping some of the lukewarm offering from the spoon.

"Shut up," Sam laughingly retorted, shaking his head, unwrapping the burger one handedly and taking a bite that nearly accounted for his half of the sandwich. After another bite, he held the remaining half of the sandwich in front of Dean's face. "Here's your half."

Barely managing to choke down the last swallow of the soup, Dean blanched at the sight of the burger, ketchup and onions nearly spilling from the creation. "I'll pass, Sam."

"Dean…" Sam began, voice starting to morph from worried into forceful.

Suddenly feeling stripped of his strength and ability to wage another battle, even with Sam, Dean quietly confessed, "Soup's all I can handle right now, Sam," eyes skittering quickly to Sam's. But he hated what he saw in his brother's expression, hated it enough to dig down and unearth the energy necessary to offer up a smart aleck remark. "And besides, like you said, I've gotta start laying off the burritos, right? Start watching my figure," he tossed out, a tired smirk making a fleeting appearance on his pale features.

"You?! Watch what food you eat?!" Sam taunted, playing along, letting Dean maintain the farce that he was fine. "Yeah, right," he snorted, because he needed the lie between them, needed Dean to downplay his pain, wanted to pretend like the last couple of days had just been par for the course of their lives.

Too worn to make a token protest, Dean mumbled a "whatever" and settled back against the seat, pointedly ignored Sam's helpful knowledge that he could lean the seat back. "Listen we're not out of …" Dean broke off, and felt his lips twitch.

"What?" Sam asked, watching Dean's lips showcase a small private smile as his brother shook his head marginally. "Dean what?" he insisted, not with force but his little brother beckoning tone that always worked so well on Dean.  
"I…" Dean gave a brief laugh, eyes turning to Sam's with a twinkle in them. "I almost said we're not out of the woods yet."

A small laugh escaped Sam, its tones cresting the emotional edge he teetered upon. "Good one, Dean." But as their eyes held, matching smiles lit up their faces. And Sam didn't honestly know how Dean did it, how he always found something to laugh about even after undergoing the worst ordeals. Didn't know how Dean could induce _him_ to laugh, to laugh honestly, truthfully when, moments before, he couldn't even fathom laughing, ever again. Like when he had confessed that he had moved the cabinet in Max Miller's house with his mind or after his possession by Meg. "You have a twisted sense of humor, you know that?" he snorted, trying to make it sound like an accusation instead of the endearment it truly was.

"Yeah, well, I like my sense of humor," Dean muttered back like a chastised little boy, beginning to roll his shoulder only to hiss in pain. Purposefully, he didn't look to Sam, knew innately that Sam's worried eyes were watching his every move, that his brother was just barely managing to not vocalize his concern. Abandoning the notion of trying to loosen his stiff muscles, Dean leaned back against the seat, shifted his legs and rubbed a hand over his still burning eyes. "So, what state are we in?"

"Thought you were the guy who bragged you could guess the state within five minutes," Sam taunted, calling upon one of their many driving games that they had devised as kids and honed as adults. Glad, for purely selfish reasons, that Dean was attempting to stay awake because watching Dean laying so still for the past few hours had been too reminiscence of his time watching Dean in his coma, a machine breathing for him.

"Sam, we're in the middle of nowhere?" Dean complained, eyes scanning the flat countryside that the 2001 Impala was streaking through.

Making a point to stare at his watch, Sam parried back, "You got three minutes, thirty seconds to go. Less you're folding already?" he challenged, a glimmer in his eyes that got Dean scowling.

"No, I'm not folding," Dean gruffly denied, pulling his outraged look from Sam back to the outside world. "I don't fold," he muttered darkly, determined to beat Sam at this game like he normally did, unaware that his show of fortitude put a smile on Sam's face, caused some of the weary lines of worry to fade from his little brother's features.

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A woman's voice jarred Dean back into consciousness. But he refused to open his eyes, to completely abandon the shelter of sleep. It had become too precious a commodity lately.

"Bob, don't forget to write down the license plate number. You know you always forget that, makes us look like fools in there when we have to walk out here…"

"I got it memorized," rejoined a gruff male voice.

"That's what you always say and then we get in the…"

When their voices cut out, Dean surmised that they had slipped inside a building, a motel lobby if he guessed right. Moving, he groaned as his every body part made its grievance known. Finally prying open his uncooperative eyes, he blinked a few times before the sight in front of their stolen car came into focus, proved itself to be a motel like he had guessed. But this particular motel was a class above their normal pickings, some would say five classes above their normal motel choices…six if you counted homeless shelters.

Not having to look to his left to know Sam was there, watching him, Dean questioned, "Don't you think this is a little above us?" turning his head to see his brother.

"Dylan's paying," Sam gloated, waving Dylan's wallet between them with a hardness in his tight smile. "Be back in a few minutes…" he said as he climbed from the car before Dean could protest.

"Don't forget the license plate number, dear," Dean called mockingly to him before the door slammed shut. Sam gave him a weak glare through the windshield as he stalked for the motel lobby. Awake and out from Sam's too observant gaze, Dean opened the car door and, with the support of the door, levered himself to his feet. Feeling lightheaded and weak, he rested his arms on the top of the open door frame, took in a cleansing breath and tried to stamp out the pain and disorientation that clung to him.

When he felt the worst of his weakness rescind, he stepped away from the support of the car and stretched. Though he openly groaned and winced at the pain of his action, he rolled his shoulders, pushed his body to obey his commands. Taking a few steps forward to loosen up his legs, he squinted into the sun that was about to do its swan song for the day and cursed the headache that refused to relinquish its reign. '_Least I'm not babbling away in Latin anymore,_' he consoled himself, catching himself before he made the mistake of shaking his head at the trouble that trait had heaped on his head in the past few days.

Exiting the lobby, Sam slowed his steps as he saw Dean standing outside the car, his back to him. Taking the opportunity to gauge his brother's movements without Dean's knowledge, Sam could see the tense set to his brother's shoulders, could see Dean's stance was one of weary resolve instead of strength. He wasn't surprised when Dean spoke to him without turning around.

"So what license plate number did you use?"

Waiting until Dean turned around, Sam offered up a small smile, "S. T. W." Here he gave a moment's pause for emphasis. "L. Y. N. N. "

A hearty laugh erupted from Dean at his brother's response. "Stolen?! You didn't?" he pressed, enjoying the fact that his brother had taken up his habit of devising sardonic license plate numbers, was even touched by it.

"Yeah, I did," Sam shot back, a smug smile on his features. "We're around back and the guy said the room's shower has a massage head and they have free movies on 24/7."

"Remind me to send a thank you card to Dylan," Dean joked as he climbed back into the car.

Parking the car outside their wing of the motel, Sam felt a little lost as he stepped out of the car and realized the only possessions they had in the world were the clothing on their backs and the things in the shopping bag that he had purchased just that morning. Dean didn't seem to have any of his same reflections, just simply climbed from the car and made his way, albeit slowly, to the motel's side entrance, without a backwards glance to the car or Sam.

Grabbing the shopping bag, Sam strode forward, slid through the motel entrance door that Dean was holding open for him by leaning against. Together they walked down the hallway to their room. The green light on the door lock shouldn't have felt like such a relief but it did to the two exhausted Winchesters.

Pushing the door open and stepping into the room, Dean vaguely admired the bland décor that any respectable father wouldn't mind subjecting his kids to. Then he was stumbling for the closest bed.

Guessing Dean's intensions, it took all of Sam's logical resolve to force himself to reach out and latch onto Dean's arm, to derail his brother's forward motion to his much deserved sanctuary of the bed, of more fitful sleep. When Dean swung around to face him with anger and frustration in his tired gaze, Sam ordered forcefully, "Go take a shower, Dean." Cutting off Dean's protest, he explained, "You need to get the dirt off before I can treat your wounds."

Recognizing that Dean wasn't about to submissively do his little brother's bidding, Sam stepped forward, crowded Dean and said, his voice low, unflinchingly determined, "Dean, don't even try and tell me that you're OK or that you're not in pain or that it can wait! It's waited long enough!" '_I've had to wait long enough to ease your pain, to make sure you're going to be alright. I can't wait any longer, I won't_,' he left unsaid. But something in his brother's eyes shifted from protest to some emotion he couldn't identify. It made Sam question if his sentiments were hidden from Dean after all, were maybe heard loudly and clearly.

Not being a fool, Dean knew Sam was right, knew better than most people ever wanted to know how far he could push his own body, how much pain and wear and tear he could lock away, make it as if it didn't exist. In truth, he had passed that threshold hours ago. Crap, if he were really honest with himself, he knew that he had been toeing that line for days, practically since the Simmons had hauled him from the wreckage of their shed.

It unnerved him that somewhere along the lines Sam had learned to see through his walls, had known what he was only now admitting to himself. Fearing disappointment, even disgust in Sam's eyes, Dean found only compassion, worry in the look his brother leveled at him. Sam forgave his weakness, overlooked it, discounted it and Dean wasn't sure how to feel about that, about that charity.

Trusting Dean to not deny his request out of hand, Sam released his hold on his brother's arm and sat the shopping bag down onto the table. Pulling out the clothing he had purchased for Dean, he held the items out to his brother, a beseeching look morphing with his resolve.

Cursing little brothers and their inexplicable hold on their older brothers, Dean ripped the clothing from Sam's grasp, stalked into the bathroom and shut the door with force. But inside, out from under Sam's inspection, Dean leaned heavily against the bathroom door, his eyes shut and the clothing he held feeling too heavy in his hands. Sam for a moment there with his 'Go take a shower, Dean' had sounded too much like their Dad, had mimicked the tone Dean had heard from John Winchester a hundred times before…when his father thought he was being weak, believed that he would go off and do the wrong thing. And though no disgust, no censorship had entered Sam's eyes with his order, Dean wondered if Sam was simply a better poker player than he and his father had ever given him credit for.

Though the slam of the door wasn't exactly an encouraging sign for his upcoming doctor routine, Sam accepted it gratefully for what it was: a concession to his wishes, albeit a disgruntled one. Sinking down onto the end of the nearest bed, Sam bowed his head, ran tired hands through his hair and tried to loosen the tension that still held his muscles taut. With the sound of the shower turning on, he raised his head, looked to the closed bathroom door and felt some of the fear coursing through him dissipate. Forcing himself to his feet, he started to lay out the medical supplies he had purchased onto the night stand. All the while, he refused to let his mind revisit the events of the last few days, to count how many times he had thought he was going to lose his brother.

'_Stop acting like the girl Dean thinks you are. Dean's alright,_' he chastised himself, knowing that the last thing Dean wanted was for him to hover all over him, to treat him like he was weak, was _broken_. But Sam's fingers stopped their motion at that thought. Bracing his hands on the night stand, he hung his head and wished that Dean had had a different life, that someone had done for Dean what Dean had done for him: sheltered him, protected him, took the time to mend him when he was broken.

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TBC

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Ok, so it's not a great place to throw in a TBC but it's the best break I could find. Guess that's a common problem when you've decide to write nonsensical fluff like this is..

Thank you for all the wonderful words of encouragement, not only for last chapter but for this story! That helped me get this chapter into shape and out to you!

Have a wonderful day! 

Cheryl W.


	22. On The Mend

Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Well, here's the final chapter! Two warnings: It's long and it's sappy and full of comfort scenes because my motto is: If you break the boys you have to take the time and responsibility to fix 'em. (Ah, such a bittersweet task.)

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Chapter 21: On The Mend

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Hearing the shower turn off, Sam's focus became divided between the tv and the bathroom door, his knee bouncing in impatience as he sat on the end of the bed. He only managed to hold out for another few minutes before he surged from the bed and knocked lightly on the bathroom door. "Dean, you decent?" he called through the thin wood, his head tilted so close that it almost rested against the door.

"Yeah," came Dean's gruff reply. "You gotta hit the head or what?" he asked as he opened the door, hair wet and newly purchased jeans on but not having had time yet to shrug into the new button down shirt.

Whatever relief Sam envisioned he would feel at seeing Dean cleaned up, didn't make an appearance. Instead he swallowed hard at the sight of Dean's drawn, pale face and his brother's bruised torso and wounded side. Shifting his look up from his brother's wounded side to Dean's face, he quietly began, "Dean you look…"

Having seen Sam's eyes unmistakably fixate on the wolf's parting gift to him, Dean gruffly agreed, "Yeah," looking away from his brother down to the scratches on his side. Roughly he brushed his fingers over the puckered, pink, ripped flesh as if the wound was a nuisance he was tired of babying.

"Don't, Dean," Sam rebuked, his hand brushing aside Dean's, interrupting his brother's callous inspection. "I'll take care of it."

But Sam's look said '_I'll take care of you_,' and Dean skittered away from that sentiment, had just spent twenty minutes striving to wash away any lingering vulnerability along with the mud that coated his body. Stepping back from Sam, he tried for nonchalance. "It's nothing serious, not since you cleaned it with the holy water."

Pain flashed in Sam's eyes and a wince contorted his face at the reference to the torture he had inflicted on Dean. '_No wonder Dean doesn't want me to touch him, that he is determined to take care of himself._' "I'm sorry Dean, if there had been another way…" he apologized, his sorrow evident in the look he bestowed on Dean.

Instinctively reacting to Sam's pain, Dean took a step forward, closed in the space between him and Sam. Tilting his head down so he could look into Sam's slightly bowed face, he praised softly, "Hey, you did great, Sam, did what I needed you to do. I wouldn't have gotten far running through the woods if you hadn't dispelled the wolf's effect on me."

Biting his lip, Sam nodded, knew Dean was telling the truth but it didn't dull the memories of Dean's agony when the holy water soaked into his wound.

Sam's anguished look wasn't lost on Dean. '_Ah Sammy you're wearing that kicked puppy look again! I hate that look! I can't deny you much when you're wearing that look and I wonder if you know that_.' Nearly sighing, Dean gave in yet again to his little brother's wishes. Sidestepping Sam he walked out of the bathroom, knew Sam had swiveled around to watch him, knew his brother was opening his mouth to make another well meaning speech. Without a word or a look to Sam, Dean sat down on the bed, then held his ribs as he made the transition to lying down. Surprised when his brother reacted neither in sound or action, Dean raised his head and leveled an expectant look upon Sam. "What? I gotta set up an appointment, Doctor Winchester?"

Surprise and relief settled on Sam's features, anchored by a smile as he quickly came and sat beside Dean on the bed, hands anxiously reaching for the medical supplies on the nightstand. But as he pulled out a sterile pad doused with antiseptic wash, his eyes sought out Dean's. He needed his brother's permission to continue, had to see forgiveness in Dean's eyes for whatever pain he was about to inflict on him, knew he had no hope of keeping his hands steady without that understanding.

Reading Sam like a book, Dean's look softened, "Sam, I trust you, alright." Then with a smile he tacked on, "You think I would ever let you drive my baby if I didn't?"

A bittersweet smile turned up Sam's lips before he focused on his brother's torn side. Placing a steadying hand on Dean's chest, Sam dabbed the pad into the wolf's claw marks, felt Dean stiffen when the antiseptic bubbled as it did its duty. But to Sam's utter relief, there was no choked back scream from his brother, no recoil from his ministrations, no repressed pleas for him to stop the torture. Finding enough bravery in that knowledge, Sam flicked his look up to Dean's face, saw a twinge of pain there but not the agony he had in the barracks. Though Dean offered up no words, his eyes conveyed his sentiments: '_good job Sammy'_ and '_I'm alright'_ and '_keep it up_.'

Sam worked in silence, his own throat too tight to allow words to come easy. Satisfied that he had cleansed the wound, he applied some antibiotic cream and strategically placed some butterfly bandages along the torn flesh before he covered the entire wound with a sterile pad. He felt some of the tension ease in Dean's body as that task was finished, just as he felt the same happening in his own muscles. But he didn't allow himself to skitter away from the rest of his brother's hurts.

Looking to Dean's colorfully bruised torso, he tried hard not to wince. With gentle fingers, he traced Dean's ribs under the bruises, knew where the source of pain was not only by his sense of touch but by the hitch in Dean's breathing. Purposefully he didn't look to Dean's face, didn't want to gauge the level of pain by the look in his brother's eyes. "I'm not feeling any breaks or cracks so I'm thinking badly bruised," he diagnosed, only then meeting Dean's eyes for confirmation.

"Yeah, feels that way," Dean agreed, his voice tight with repressed pain, his eyes flickering away from Sam's almost immediately.

At Dean's concurring diagnoses, Sam leaned over and snagged the chemical icepack that he had already prepared. Dean jolted a little when he laid the pack onto the section of his torso that was the deepest bruised. "Sorry," Sam apologized, a hit and run sad smile of regret on his face.

"It's cold," Dean hissed, raising his head far enough to look down to the offensive icepack.

"Yeah, that's why they call it an icepack, Dean," Sam couldn't help retorting with a teasing smile.

"Smart aleck," Dean tossed out, letting his head fall back against the pillow. He purposefully kept himself from flinching when his brother's fingers brushed over the cut on his cheek.

"Feels like there are still some glass shards in there," Sam softly announced, leaning down to better inspect the wound.

"Yeah?" Dean countered, his hand reaching up to make an inspection of its own. But Sam's long fingered grip around his wrist prevented his self examination. Before he could stifle his reaction, Dean stiffened at the flare of pain that had awakened with Sam's contact with the raw skin around his wrist.

Instantly Sam released his hold and his sorrowful words started. "Crap, Dean! I'm sorry, I forgot…don't know how but I forgot about…"

"It's alright," Dean cut in, conveying the truth by the look he sent to Sam. Offering up a smirk he said, "But I think I'm officially done with the whole bondage scenario."

"Yeah," Sam gave a laugh of exhausted agreement. "Ditto." His face settling back into its determined cast, he calmly stated, "Alright, let me clean this out first," as he gently gripped Dean's jaw and turned his head to the right to gain easy access to his left cheek. Dean didn't fight the manipulation, didn't even offer up a grumble. Picking up tweezers and the magnifying glass from the nightstand, Sam inspected the wound, grimaced when the glass shards became visible. With steady hands, Sam set to work extracting the shards, was glad Dean's jaw never clenched in pain the entire procedure. When he ran his fingers over the wound and finally felt no protruding glass, Sam swabbed the area with antiseptic before he applied the antibiotic ointment.

Scooping up some of the medical supplies, Sam skirted around the bed, methodically moving onto the task of treating another of his brother's wounds. Careful to not jostle Dean, he sank down by his brother's right shoulder. With gentle pressure, he examined the cut almost hidden by Dean's hair line.

"You're good at this," Dean said quietly, looking at his brother's face as Sam worked.

"Yeah," Sam snorted with derision, keeping his eyes on his brother's gashed open skin.

"You are," Dean emphatically stated. "You're good at all of it, Sam." And that at least earned him an incredulously look from Sam. "You said you weren't as good at this hunting stuff as Dad or me…but you are, Sammy. Most of the time you're the one figuring out how to defeat the stuff we're up against."

Dabbing at the wound with the antiseptic pad, Sam muttered, "Yeah, I'm the geek boy and you're the action hero."

"What?" Dean returned, face screwing up in confusion and objection.

"I do the book work and you're the one vanquishing evil," Sam explained sullenly, scowling not only at the topic at hand but at the depth of the cut he was treating. '_Dean you're the one always going toe to toe with the stuff we're up against, getting your head bashed in on every gig,' _he remorsefully thought but didn't say.

"Vanquishing evil, I like that," Dean appreciatively repeated, bold smile lighting up his face before he tilted his head at the glum look on his brother's face. "Dude, that's what we both do. _Together,_" he emphatically clarified.

"You're the one physically taking them on and defeating them, not me," Sam pointed out, never realizing before that it was something that mattered to him.

"What? You're wrong!" Dean exclaimed, jerking upright before he remembered that his body wouldn't appreciate the motion.

Startled to have his patient moving on him, Sam jerked his hands back before his brother could bash his head on his elbows. Then, dropping the sterile pads onto Dean's chest, Sam pressed his hands on Dean's collarbones, used gentle but unyielding force to halt his brother's motion. His face inches from his brother's, Sam saw the flare of pain and exhaustion sweep away the defiance in his brother's eyes an instant before Dean crashed back to the bed with a grunt of pain. In anguish, Sam watched his brother clamp his eyes shut and wrap his hands around his ribs, because bruised ribs were no picnic even when you didn't move.

Laying a light hand on Dean's breastbone, Sam soothed, "Hey. Hey, just lie still for a little bit. We can talk later." Cursing himself for choosing now to unearthed his issues, Sam hated that the conversation had evoked Dean's protective instincts, that Dean was using energy he didn't have to sooth his little brother's hurt feelings. He tried to instill levity in his next words, "Later, you know, when I'm not playing Dr. Frankenstein and I can hang on your every word like I usually do." His efforts earned him a small snort from Dean and he found himself under the scrutiny of his brother's green eyes. He felt his own breathing even out as he felt the expansion of his brother's chest under his hand return to a calmer pace. But he didn't remove his hand, didn't want to break the connection just yet.

And Sam knew by the look in his brother's eyes that as soon as Dean could regulate his intake of air again, could wrestle the pain back into the box he kept it in, that Dean would be back to the issue at hand, back to defending him. "Dean, I'm not jealous of your abilities. I'm in awe of them," Sam confessed quietly, sincerely, eyes holding his brother's surprised gaze. "I just wish I felt like I was pulling my weight in our partnership all the time, you know."

"Dude, do we need to take a tally?" Dean managed to gasp out, shook his head at Sam's worried frown and entreating of "Dean just…" Swallowing, drawing in more air into his restricted lungs, Dean continued more steadily, with more of an even tempo, "Taking out the clown-wanna-be…that was you. Meg's swan dive…that was you. The reaper…well the first one…you again dude. Who took down Gordon after he tied me up like a Thanksgiving turkey? And the ones you think I took out, I didn't do it alone! Who came and rescued me from being beef jerky for the Wendigo so I could turn around and light him up like a Christmas tree, huh? Who figured out that a skinwalker had taken on my form? And yeah, who was that guy playing the slumber party game of mystical talking hands with me so I wouldn't just cash in my chips?"

A blush and a shy smile hued Sam's features at his brother's examples.

"I was right, you know, we both were. We make an awesome team. Whether it's as partners or brothers or even escapees from a work camp," Dean boasted, eyes bright as they latched unshakably onto Sam's.

Removing his hand from Dean's chest, Sam ran his fingers through his own hair and agreed with a release of pent up breath, "Yeah, yeah, we do." But then he pointed a finger at Dean, "But I'm never opting for the work camp get away package again."

"Ah come on, Sammy. It would have taken years of therapy for us to have this relationship breakthrough and instead, with Dylan's little camp time retreat, we did it in only a few short days," Dean sallied back, smirking as Sam shook his head.

"Well, from here on out, when you need therapy, I'll just set you down to watch your favorite show: Oprah," Sam tossed back, a self satisfied smile on his lips.

"It's not my favorite show," Dean denied, disgruntled.

"Oh right, you've probably moved onto Dr. Phil like all the rest of the stay at home moms," Sam taunted as he returned back to his ministrations, began applying antibiotic ointment to the cut on his brother's head.

"Eat me," was Dean's classy comeback, wincing slightly at Sam's ministrations.

"Thought the Benders taught you why that's sooo not a good thing to say," Sam shot back. Leaning closer to inspect the wound, he debated if stitches were possible on the days old cut.

"So not funny. Tied up in that house…I felt like Bugs Bunny taking a bath in the stew," Dean grumbled, not altogether without truth. Feeling a little self conscious with Sam leaning over him, inspecting his head like it was a science project he was immersed in, he ached to push Sam back a few inches to regain some space to breathe. He almost sighed in relief when Sam pulled back, that was until Sam's hand settled onto his forehead.

"You're a little warm," Sam announced, worry creasing his brow at the heat he felt under his hand before he slid the back of his fingers across his brother's cheek for further results. "Your body's probably fighting off infection."

"Yeah, that's me, a fighter," Dean glibly rejoined, hoping to ease the worry and the inclination to mother hen him from his brother.

Sam snorted, "Yeah, who's the real Rocky in this scenario." Having made his decision, he began the application of butterfly bandages along the cut. Then, slipping his fingers to the back of Dean's head, he began his inspection through his brother's short hair.

"Sam," Dean warned, his tolerance for his brother's doctor routine about at it's limit, his hand reaching up ready to forcefully remove Sam's hand.

Dodging Dean's grasping hand, Sam sighed, "Dean, come on, you think just because there's no blood gushing that I can't tell when something is hurting you? I know your head's still killing you, man. Maybe if you let me take a look at it, put some ice on it, you might feel better."

For a moment, Sam couldn't read the expression in his brother's eyes, didn't know what would come next in their negotiation. But he feared the worst when Dean grabbed the ice pack from his ribs and shoved it at him. "Ah, Dean…" Sam whined in protest but the rest of the words fell away as he watched Dean, with painful, slow motions, roll over onto his stomach.

His voice muffled by the pillow, Dean admitted, "Right now my head hurts way worse than my ribs." But his breath was caught in his chest, was trapped there waiting for Sam's response. Dean knew how his Dad would have reacted to his blatant admission to pain and found he needed to know what Sam's reaction would be. He couldn't keep trying to second guess his brother's feelings, to continue to make comparisons between his father and brother or struggle to decipher which mask he was expected to don. Not when he was barely keeping himself together, was barely able to face each new day with his father's deathbed order and his own guilt at his father's sacrifice coiled around his soul.

Sam's breath caught in his throat, not only at Dean's admission to pain but his brother's willingness to open up to him, to allow him to help him. "Bet it does," Sam said, his voice unsteady and sympathetic as he skimmed his fingers over the back of his brother's head with feather light pressure. Finding the swelling under Dean's hair wasn't so much a victory as a crushing defeat. It made Sam wonder bleakly how Dean had even been conscious the last few days as badly hurt as he was, let alone done the physical triathlon he had. '_He did it for you. Stood up to Chase and Dylan, didn't let their abuse break him, didn't let his body break him, not when it would have meant you getting hurt.'_

Sam's voice was hoarse when he spoke, "Skin isn't broken but you've got some impressive swelling."

Sam's tender touch, his gentle words were proof enough for Dean that his brother did not find his weakness contemptible, was not mocking his pain, was, instead, seemingly grieved over it. Feeling his tension fade away and the fortifications that he had erected against condemnation crumble, Dean sank further into the comfortable confines of the bed. "I'm all about being impressive," he mumbled through the pillow, surprised to find himself suddenly fighting off sleep, that his brother's light touches were easing some of his pain instead of hiking it. He stiffened slightly as Sam's touch was replaced by the ice pack but when Sam's hand settled onto the base of his neck, he felt himself loosening up again.

"Think you can get some sleep?" Sam soothingly asked, was rewarded with a murmur of agreement before he heard his brother's breathing shift. With tenderness, Sam gave a squeeze to Dean's neck before he slowly got off the bed, tried hard not to jostle his brother's sleeping form in the process. But he couldn't walk away, stood there a moment, looking down at his brother, watched as Dean turned his head in his sleep, giving him a full view of his right profile. Reaching down, Sam drew the covers up to cover his brother's back before he headed off to take his own shower.

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Standing beside Dean's bed, his hair still soaking wet from his shower, Sam found it unnerving how still his brother was. Was disconcerted that Dean hadn't done his traditional tossing and turning, was in the same position he had left him in: lying on his stomach, ice pack still in place, face still turned to the left, even breaths barely causing any motion in his brother's muscled frame.

Sam smiled at the one concession to his brother's normal sleeping habits…the hand dangling over the edge of the bed, as if the mattress wasn't big enough for just that part of his body. As he had done in the past, when their rooms were so small that he couldn't negotiate to the bathroom without running into his brother's appendage, Sam intended to slip his brother's hand back onto the bed, back under the covers. But his fingers froze before they touched Dean's arm, hovered just above the bloody, harshly bruised ring around his brother's always so seemingly strong wrist.

It jolted Sam to see Dean's wrist as a fragile conglomeration of flesh, muscle and bone, as able to be bruised, able to be broken, to be shattered…not so unlike Dean himself. Sam swallowed at the comparison, felt his chest tighten as he saw the physical proof of just how hard his brother had fought to keep him from falling to his death when he had stumbled off the cliff, to keep them together. But even as that thought came, another vague memory of panic surged through him. A memory of coming awake in the water and feeling his brother's hand slipping away from his own, knowing with some uncanny dark certainty that he was soon going to be inexplicably alone. Sam understood now that Dean had believed himself an anchor, that he was weighing him down, that Dean had sought to cut him free in order to save him. '_Stupid jerk_,' Sam chastised, a tender smile on his lips at his brother's devotion to him.

Skirting around his brother's out flung hand, Sam came to the nightstand, gathered the supplies again in his hands before turning around. Sinking down to his knees between the two beds, Sam slid his hand under his brother's and gingerly began cleaning Dean's wounded wrist. It felt less fragile under his fingers, more like the unshakeable lifeline that he had had complete faith in.

His eyes flickering up to his brother's face, Sam was relieved that Dean didn't stir under his touch. That his brother unconsciously trusted him to keep him safe, to not exploit his weakness but to protect him in his vulnerability…just like Dean always protected his little brother.

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When Dean woke up, it took him a moment to identify that the white he saw inches from his face was a cloth bandage wrapped around his wrist. '_Huh, never even felt you putting it on, Sammy. Tricky,_' he thought as he rolled over, grimaced in pain but could happily say that he felt better than he had in days. Scanning the night shadowed room, he saw Sam sitting at the motel room's small table, newspaper spread out under his fingers, his eyes upon him. "Time is it?" he mumbled, wiping at his eyes.

"'bout nine," Sam answered, coming out of the chair and crossing over to his brother. Sitting beside Dean, he snagged the bottle of painkillers from the table, tapped two pills into his hand before putting the bottle back. Picking up the hand that Dean had resting on his stomach, Sam turned his brother's hand over and poured the pills into his palm.

Too beaten to even offer up an eye roll at Sam's coddling, Dean lifted his head up and tossed the pills in his mouth. He found a water bottle pressed into his hand an instant later. Taking a swallow of the water to down the pills, he then took a long pull on the bottle. It felt like he hadn't had the pleasure of the refreshing taste of water for days.

Having nearly drained the water bottle, Dean came up for air. Dropping his head back onto the pillow, he studied his brother as Sam took the bottle from him and put it back onto the nightstand. "You're looking better," he commented, glad to see the reduced swelling in his brother's battered features. Snagging Sam's hand, he inspected the fight inflicted cuts on his knuckles and then slid his brother's left shirt sleeve up his arm to reveal a bandage wrapped around his forearm where he had been cut. "Physician heal thyself…" he quirked which got a quick smile from his brother.

"Was going to order room service.." Sam began but paused as he saw Dean smirk.

"Ah, room service. We've certainly come up in the world," Dean drawled, glad to get the opportunity to tease Sam.

"Don't get used to it Cinderfella," Sam shot back, standing up and crossing over to snag the room service menu from the table before returning to stand by his brother's bed. When Dean just smirked at him instead of taking the menu he offered, Sam sighed, "Alright, what?"

"Nothing, just…" Dean shrugged, let his eyes drop to the bed sheets. "You ordering from room service it just seems…"

"Stupid, right? You want me to go grab us something somewhere? A burger or some Chinese or.." Sam quickly offered, trying to be accommodating.

"It seems …natural, Sam," Dean cut in, sorrow in his eyes as they held Sam's. "Lawyers get room service all the time, don't they? Have big luncheons at Italian restaurants? Which they always put on the corporate credit card," he finished with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes, crossing his legs at the ankles as if he wasn't affected by his own words.

Sinking down to sit beside Dean, Sam allowed quietly, "Maybe," his eyes down and the menu now dangling between his long fingers. "Some of them make lots of money, have expensive cars, and big houses." When Sam raised his eyes again to his brother, the conviction in them matched the tone of his next words, "And most of them are too busy to spend time with their families, have rarely if ever saved a person's life." Giving a bitter chuckle he continued, "And I think it's pretty safe to say the majority of them would never do something as drastic as tracking down a faith healer to save their brother's life or think to buy a mystical talking hands board to communicate with their brother when he is in a coma."

"You're right, they wouldn't last a day in our cutthroat business," Dean joked, needing to deflect Sam's words, to downplay their effect on him. He told himself that it was just coincidence that his brother's examples revolved around him, involved Sam using his hunting skills to save him. He was sure it wasn't a conscious decision Sam had made, making the parallels, pointing out that he would be dead twice over if his little brother had chosen the life of a lawyer.

"A day?! They wouldn't last an hour," Sam corrected, smirking as he tried to envision his fellow law students embarking on one of their hunts. "Can't believe I actually thought I could be a lawyer," he admitted ruefully, shaking his head at his own foolishness. "I guess I just wanted something black and white, didn't want to continue to drown in the grays of our lifestyle."

Dean gave a small grunt, "Yeah, well, I thought our lives were all black and white. But now…with everything that's happened…" he shrugged instead of continuing and Sam was reminded of Dean's words after they had let Lenore go, had found a group of vampires that weren't killers. '.._everything's jacked up_.'

"Guess its back to just us against the world, huh? Saving people, hunting things?" Sam said with a soft smile, stealing Dean's own words.

"Ah give me the menu," Dean groused, snatching the menu from Sam's slack grip and beginning to peruse his choices while he pointedly ignored the smug expression on his brother's face.

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Dean was running through the forest, heart pounding, breath heaving, could feel his pursuers gaining ground. He was about to look behind him, to see if he could make out their features when his brother called out his name. The sound of that familiar voice evoked a powerful enough response in him to mercifully shatter the cold embrace of the dreamscape, to allow him to begin to claw to consciousness. When his ankle was grasped and shaken, Dean felt the last tendril of sleep slip away.

"What?" he groggily said, struggling to get his eyes open, for the room to come into focus, for the dream, the memories to scamper back into the lock box in his mind.

"Dean, wake up," Sam demanded, giving his brother's ankle another shake as he sat at the end of Dean's bed beside his brother's legs, eyes glued to the television.

Looking over his shoulder at his brother and the tv beyond, Dean growled, "Great, you woke me up to see that detergent bear commercial? You know I hate that friggin' bear."

"No, no. The news," Sam explained, sparing a backward glance at Dean, his eyes sharp and jumping with adrenaline that got Dean's own heart beating faster. "You awake? I want you to watch this too."

"Yeah, I'm awake," Dean mumbled, rolling over onto his back and using his hands to lever himself into a seated position just as the commercial break was over.

Sam's head swiveled back to the tv as the male newscaster began to speak, "Now to recap one of today's top stories is Nancy Preston." Then Nancy Preston was there, microphone in hand, in front of an all too familiar background. "Early this morning, this illegal inmate work camp behind me was raided by FBI agents. According to our sources, nearly forty inmates were among the camp's occupants at the time of the raid. Over fifteen men who were serving as guards for the camp have been arrested." The scene shifted to the work camp, panning across the work trucks and the sewer line pipes as the reporter narrated. "As evidenced by the equipment in the camp, the inmates were working in, what can only be surmised as, a wide scale housing development. But with four bodies having already been unearthed from an unmarked burial pit, this is no habitat for humanity project."

When the reporter returned to the screen, she was no longer on location at the camp, was instead standing in front of a building that had the look of federal funding, the darkness of night among her backdrop. "Tonight, after further investigation, we have determined that the inmates were removed from their prisons and brought to the camp's location where they were forced to either work or be buried in a shallow grave."

"Not so shallow.." Dean mumbled, his eyes fixed on the screen.

"Though the agent in charge still refuses to comment on what evidence led him to the camp," a clip of Agent Henricksen growling out a "no comment" was spliced in there for a flash of a second before the newscaster came back onto the screen, "our own investigations have tied the convicts to a work program that is in place at three of our state's prisons, a work program sanctioned by Governor Montrel. Though the governor refused to comment on possible allegations that he was using this "work program" to subsidize his lagging campaign support which came hard on the claims of misconduct at his family run construction business, investigations have begun working to uncover the name of the owner of the land in which the work camp was located and the source of funding for the project. Now back to you, Phillip."

"Holy crap," Sam breathed, turning to face Dean, disbelief on his features.

"Yeah, who knew we were working for the governor," Dean drawled with fake enthusiasm.

"Dean, we barely got of there before Henricksen arrived, we almost made national news…again!"

"I can't believe Henricksen didn't give us credit for leading him to this awesome collar?" Dean complained, eyes alight with his own humor.

"He looked pretty pissed actually. I think the only one he cares about getting is you," Sam declared, hating that it was the truth, that Dean was Henricksen's focus, felt guilty that he himself was viewed as little more than the sidekick.

"Well, he's gonna have to work harder than that," Dean boldly stated with a cocky smile on his pale features.

'_A heck of a lot harder_,' Sam vowed before he shook off the dread of that worry. One threat at a time was the only way he could make it through the days. "Think they got Dylan and Chase?" he asked, uncertain if he wanted the two men "rescued" so they could serve jail time or left to rot in the woods.

"I don't know but, let me tell you, if I was one of those other stooges working that camp, I would offer to personally lead the hunt to find them. No way would I want to take the wrap myself," Dean said, scooting backwards with a wince until his back was against the headboard.

Shaking his head at the way his brother's mind worked, Sam got up and clicked off the tv. "Serial murder raps, bank robberies, now illegal work camps run by governors. Life with you is never boring, Dean," he said, eyes on his brother.

"Course not 'cause I'm not boring," Dean boasted, a wide smile turning up his lips.

"Just crazy.." Sam countered, wanting to get a rise out of Dean, to keep that smile on Dean's pale face a while longer.

"Don't forget handsome…" Dean played along, watching as some of the tight lines on Sam's face eased as his brother broke into a smirk.

"And reckless…" Sam lightly accused without the edge that claim had carried earlier in the day.

Knowing the difference between Sam passing judgment and teasing him, Dean corrected, "You mean daring, heroic…"

"Not to mention humble…" Sam threw in with a laugh.

"One of my best traits if I have to say so myself," Dean rejoined with a smile.

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Parked beside an abandoned barn twenty miles away from the motel, Sam leaned against the 2001 Impala, squinting against the first rays of the rising sun. He was still mulling over how easily Dean had left him go. He had only offered up the vague explanation of "I'm going to go trade up the car again," and that had been enough for Dean to mumble an "OK" and turn over and fall back to sleep. All without insisting on coming along or offering up a threat if he picked a vehicle he would classify as wussy. That battle Sam had been prepared for, had his arguments up and ready to go. But Dean's capitulation? His utter weariness? That was cruel proof that Dean was still off his game, still hurting, should spend another day or two sacked out in bed.

With the stark realization of just how vulnerable Dean still was, Sam felt his uneasiness at being away from his brother skyrocket higher at every minute that ticked by. Couldn't help but shuffle his feet, bite his lip and dig his hands deeper into his pockets until he heard the welcoming sound of an approaching vehicle. Pushing off the stolen vehicle to stand upright, he didn't even bother to try and hide the smile that lit up his entire face.

Bobby doesn't think for a moment that the smile was for him, but he was somewhat taken off guard by which Winchester was grinning so happily at the car he was hauling on the back of his tow truck. Dean getting all misty eyed over the Impala he had come to expect, but Sam?!

Pulling to a stop, Bobby hopped out of the truck, was utterly unprepared to be engulfed in a bear hug from Sam as the younger Winchester reverently offered up a "Thanks Bobby," before letting him go. Feeling disoriented at the exuberant reception, Bobby shrugged and mumbled a "yeah, no problem" as his eyes slide to Sam, wondering if the boy had gone and gotten himself possessed again.

If Sam noticed the look, he didn't react to it, simply trotted back to the bed of the tow truck, eyes fixed on the gleaming black paint of his brother's car. "Everything go ok?" he asked, at Bobby's silence his eyes slid to the older man.

Shaking off his uneasiness, Bobby replied, "It was so easy I'm ashamed for them. Just told them Agent Henricksen wanted the car hauled away as evidence." Moving to unload the Impala, Bobby felt himself grow about as nervous as he would be if Dean was the one standing there, watching his every move, making sure he didn't hurt his baby. Stealing a glance to Sam, he read the relief in the younger man's face, noted the way Sam looked at the Impala like it was some long lost treasure being returned to him. Not for the first time, it hit Bobby how bound together these two brothers were, that what hurt one brother, hurt the other, what one brother valued, the other valued: like the Impala.

A year ago that point had been sharply made when he stood at Sam's side and watched as a look of devastation crumbled the youngest Winchester's features at the sight of his brother's car, mangled and broken and seemingly irreparable. Vividly Bobby recalled picking up his phone, hearing Sam's broken voice asking him to tow the Impala back to his place, barely able to choke out an explanation, to tell him that Dean was hurt, was on life support.

/////////// 1 Year Ago////////////////

"Yeah," Bobby had growled into the phone, disgruntled at being awoken practically at first light. He barely recognized the quiet voice on the other end of the line.

"Hey Bobby, it's Sam."

"Sam, you find your dad?" Bobby asked with honest interest, turning on the light beside his bed as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah we did," but Sam's voice cracked amid the seemingly good news and the silence that fell made Bobby's throat go dry with dread. "We had…" and the younger man's voice fell away, was replaced by a trembling intake of breath, "a truck…" Clearing his throat, Sam finally managed to force out a complete sentence. "Can you pick up the Impala, Bobby? It was towed to a lot off I90."

"Towed?!" Bobby exclaimed, sleep having been replaced by fear, wishing he understood Sam's ramblings enough to piece together the whole picture. But Sam wasn't replying and Bobby could barely hear him breathing on the other end of the line. And a quiet Sam …well that was more proof than Bobby wanted that something was seriously wrong. "Were any of you hurt?" he asked, his concern unmasked.

"They say Dad's awake….gonna be alright…" Sam supplied but there was a ribbon of despair in his tone if not his words, as if the boy's very world was shattering around him. And Bobby knew that if there was one thing on God's green earth that could break Sam, it was the prospect of losing his big brother.

Bobby found he couldn't not ask his next question, because, against his better judgment, he had gotten way too attached to John Winchester's boys. "Dean?"

"He was hurt…" and Sam's voice had broken apart on the word '_hurt_'. It took a few moments before he spoke again. "Before…by the ….Bobby he was in bad shape …and then…" Bobby heard Sam draw in a trembling breath, let it out, struggle to get himself back under control. "He's …." And this pause felt conscious, as if the next words had to be selected carefully, would determine the outcome of some horrible event. "He's on life support."

With that revelation, the very breath was knocked out of Bobby, made his legs weak, had him crumbling into the nearest chair. "Sam I'm…" but he stopped the word 'sorry" from slipping out because it sounded too much like he expected the worst, like Dean was already gone. Instead he gave out a promise, "I'm heading out the door now to get the Impala."

"In the trunk…" and here when Sam halted his words, Bobby could sense it wasn't emotions but precaution that had him falling silent, hesitant to speak. It took Bobby only a few moments to figure out what lay inside the Impala's trunk, what was valued even as Sam's world threatened to implode: the Colt.

"I gotcha, Sam. I understand," he replied firmly, knew the kind of trust that was being laid into his hands with Sam's request.

"The Impala…" Sam stammered and Bobby corrected himself, knew that the greatest show of Sam's trust had nothing to do with the Colt.

"Sam I…Dean's a real fighter, you know that right?" he tried to put as much conviction in his tone as he could with his own heart racing in fear. By the catch in Sam's breathing, he knew his words weren't doing the kid much good. "He won't leave you or your dad without one heck of a fight, Sam. That I know for certain," and there was no deception in his words, no platitudes, only the truth as he knew it.

But Sam's desolate "Thanks' Bobby" and the click of the phone had Bobby thinking that maybe he didn't know the truth that Sam did.

/////////////present/////////////////////////

Shaking off the memories as he settled the Impala back on terra firma and the tow lines were detached, Bobby watched Dean's brother. He didn't miss the caressing touch of Sam's hand as his fingers ran down the hood of the black car. Leaning against his tow truck, Bobby watched Sam inspect the car and thought back to the call he had gotten from Sam the day before to once again retrieve the Impala from a fate worse than death.

////////////////Previous Day////////////////////////

"Hey Bobby, it's Sam."

"Sam, you hunting any more aliens," Bobby had taunted, still amused at the line of bull the Trickster had nearly had the Winchesters swallowing.

But Sam's returning laughter was tired, seemed to teeter on the edge of control. "No, no more aliens. Hey, I know we've been putting you out a lot lately but…"

"Putting me out?" Bobby interrupted, "More like putting me back in the game. So what do you need?"  
"Can you pick up the Impala?" And that was a request Bobby never wanted to hear again, not after the last time. Instantly he found himself attempting to interpret Sam's tone, to make comparisons to the last time Sam had called him to tow his brother's car.

"Bobby, you there?" Sam's voice came again, lacking in devastation, devoid of sorrow.  
Pulling his own raging emotions under control, Bobby stammered, "Yeah…yeah, I'm here. What's wrong with her?" he asked but knew that the real question wasn't about the Impala's status, was instead 'what's wrong with Dean?' because that boy could fix anything on that car.

"Nothing…except I think she's in the hands of Agent Henricksen" Sam confessed, sounding like the boy who was calling his father to say he was sitting in the principal's office.

Bobby knew it was stupid to feel relief over the fate of a car, heck he was a junk man for pete sake, but this wasn't just any car they were talking about….or strangers he was worrying over. "I take it you and your brother aren't in federal custody," he surmised, the tightness in his chest loosening even before Sam gave his reply.

"No," came tiredly from Sam before a firmer, "No!" followed. "But you know Dean, he'll stage some stupid, reckless "rescue" if I don't find a way to return his baby to him."

"Oh yeah, the boy's a mite attached to the chrome beauty," Bobby returned with laughter in his voice.

"A mite?!" Sam scoffed back, as if he could hide the affection he felt for his brother from a man who knew the two of them since they were kids.

"So where do I find her?" Bobby asked, already grabbing pen and paper to scribble down an address.

But Sam's next words weren't an address, were hesitant, even as they conveyed his need, "I know it's a risk…"

"Nothing I can't handle," Bobby briskly reassured, wanting to return the Impala to its rightful owner nearly as much as Sam did. "So where do you think she's at…"

///////////present/////////

When his inspection of the Impala didn't uncover a single mar on his brother's pride and joy, Sam released an exhale of relief. Turning again to Bobby, he tilted his head at the look the older hunter was giving him. "What?"

Shrugging, Bobby calmly drew out, "You look like you went fifty rounds with a Wendigo," choosing to not take that moment to tease Sam about his attachment to the Impala. No, the older man could sense an undercurrent of barely controlled emotions in the younger man, would not open the floodgates over the car, not when more weighty concerns needed to be addressed.

"Feel like it too," Sam admitted, the words coming out with his tired exhale of breath.

Turning his most casual gaze on Sam, Bobby purposefully baited the hook with his next words, "While I was waiting to get the Impala, I heard the talk about the work camp…them finding bodies dumped into a pit." Watching all the color drain from Sam's face, Bobby didn't have to speculate on how narrowly he or Dean had missed being part of that body count. '_Since Sam's about losing his lunch, my bet's on Dean being the one that they nearly killed,' _he silently surmised._ 'Guess I know why Dean's the poker player in their partnership_.'

Having mercy on the youngest Winchester, Bobby stepped closer, put a steadying hand on Sam's elbow. "I can see that's no surprise to you," he said, his voice pitched low, his worry for the missing Winchester tightening the breath in his chest. "Dean alright?"

Jaw clenched, Sam swallowed, nodded his head. Then, biting his lip, he looked across the flat plains, purposefully not meeting Bobby's too piercing gaze. It took him a moment to find his voice. "Will be."

Having taught himself how to read people, and having learned that sometimes well placed silence pried the lid off of the most tight lipped people, Bobby replied with simply a look of compelling compassion. But Sam's eyes jumped from his own almost immediately. And Bobby hated that Sam's words were not enough to send his worry packing, hated it enough to scurry across a line he knew not to cross with Dean, was wholly uncertain what a foray into that territory with Sam would get him. "Are you alright?" cursing himself as he heard the concerned lilt to his tone, knew that it could get the door slammed in his face.

The question mingled with the other man's genuine concern had Sam's eyes alighting back to Bobby's. "Yeah," he answered but it was a croak of sound, a lie that barely carried enough weight to travel the short distance to Bobby. The older man's intake of air told Sam that Bobby wasn't about to let things go, was going to push him for answers, was going to make him open up…like he had been forcing Dean to do for the past two days.

'_Ah crap, sucks when the tables are turned. 'Least Dean's not here to see it,_' but that thought only made Sam's gut clench tighter at the stinging absence of his brother from his side. Sharply it reminded him how hard it had been to walk out of the motel room half an hour ago, to leave Dean behind, to allow his brother out of his sight, to let him out from under his protection. It made him wonder if Dean felt the same level of apprehension, if the same fierce protectiveness always singed along Dean's nerves every time they split up. '_Or I disappear on him…either willingly or unwillingly_,' Sam bitterly wondered, the thought of the torment Dean had gone through each of those times now making Sam's stomach roil.

Leaning back against the Impala, Sam bowed his head, could feel Bobby's gentle eyes upon him, waiting. "I …tried to protect him…" Instead of saying more, Sam gave a derisive snort, scoffed at his own pathetic attempts to keep Dean from harm. Raising gleaming, bitter eyes to Bobby, he bit out, "Crap, that's such a joke, me protecting him." Pushing off of the Impala, he walked a pace or two forward, putting Bobby at his back.

Unaccustomed to being Sam's confidante, Bobby drew in a breath and frantically strived to organize his thoughts before he spoke. "Now you sound just like your dad every time one of you boys got hurt?"

"How?" Sam demanded in angry disbelief, quickly turning around to face Bobby, defiance sparkling in his eyes at the comparison.

Shrugging, Bobby found it hard to put the parallels into words, "He would say just what you said, that he tried to protect you both. That maybe …" but Bobby broke off there, recanting his next words.

But Sam's interest was piqued. "That what?" an earnest desire in his eyes to know another side of his father, a side he hadn't seen.

Wondering if he was going to do more harm than good, Bobby nevertheless pressed forward, "That maybe he hadn't taught you enough, hadn't trained you hard enough, hadn't prepared you enough. Always said it was his fault when you or Dean got hurt."

Sam's brow creased, not with anger but confusion, "Trained us enough? I don't think the Marines train as hard as he trained Dean and I…especially Dean."

"But it didn't keep you safe, either of you." With a small chuckle, he confessed, "I used to almost cringe when whichever one of you that had gotten hurt started healing. 'Cause I knew the second you were up to it, your dad would be putting you boys through the paces. Would do his best to rid you of whatever weakness he believed had gotten you hurt." Looking at Sam cautiously, reading the smirk on Sam's face as the boy nodded his head, the memories more sweet than bitter in retrospect, Bobby revealed, his voice quiet, "Bet you never knew that when one of you was hurting, he would sit by your bed, watch you sleep. Wouldn't say a word, just sat there, like he was counting every breath you took, memorizing your face…"

Bobby looked away, was surprised by his words, by his own sentimentality. Found the memories both good, touching and sad and gut wrenching at the same moment. When he looked back to Sam he knew the younger man felt the same way, heard it in Sam's shaken voice.

"I didn't know that…that he sat with us when we were hurt."

"Your dad …" Bobby ruefully shook his hand, "he was always one of those mysteries I saw as too frightening to figure out."

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a laugh, happy that he could remember his father fondly in that moment, that he knew his father had loved him, had loved Dean, had tried to protect them. Felt closer to his father than he had before knowing that they both knew the bitter taste of failing to protecting the ones they loved: Mary / Jess…_Dean_. After a moment, Sam drew in a breath, hoped the look he bestowed on Bobby conveyed his gratitude for the older man's words, for showing him a glimpse of the softer side of his father.

Wanting to shake off the seriousness of their conversation, Bobby pointed to Sam's stolen vehicle, "You steal that ride or did your brother?" a twinkle in his eyes.

Laughing, Sam replied, "I did. Dean was..well, _almost_ Ok with it. Poor substitute and all that."

"Yeah, I bet," Bobby snorted, though the fact that Sam had stolen the car instead of his big brother had him worrying over Dean again. And the notion that Dean was "almost" Ok with being seen in some modern, neutered model of his car…that sent off warning bells in his head. "So, Dean's really OK? The …camp, those guys, they seemed pretty hard core, military backgrounds by the talk I picked up from the FBI."

Nodding, Sam replied, tried to distance himself from his own words, "He was hurt on a job, possessed wolf attacked him and then we got tossed into the work camp. And yeah, the guys who ran the place were military. Course they took a real shine to Dean," he said, a bitter laugh as if there had been some humor in the situation, as if any could be found even now. But even the fabricated humor left his eyes as he admitted, "Got pretty bad in there, escaping was no dance party and Dean's going to be hurting for awhile but on the bright side, we didn't need to break out our new insurance cards," a fake smile forcefully turning up his lips.

"You know if you two ever need anything…" Bobby began but Sam smiled genuinely.

"You mean besides Impala retrieval?"

"Yeah," Bobby snorted, "If you need me for something other than my flatbed…"

"We know, Bobby," Sam earnestly said, feeling that bond with Bobby spring forward that he had shared with the man as a kid. "Thanks _Uncle_ Bobby," he taunted, eyes dancing as Bobby bristled.

"Ah, take that relic and get outta here," Bobby groused, throwing a set of keys at Sam as he fought hard not to smile, to not clamp a hand around Sam's arm and pull the too tall kid in for a hug.

Laughing Sam climbed into the Impala, felt his heart jump into his throat as he started the car up, heard the Impala's engine rumble to life. With a wave to Bobby he sent the car forward. Spitting stones from under its tires, Sam felt the car surge onto the road like an animal too long caged up, knew that feeling himself only too well. Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, he smiled as he anticipated the look on his brother's face when he saw his baby sitting in the parking lot, waiting for him.

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The click of the motel door closing had woken Dean up, felt like a blast of frigid air from a ghost had swept through the room. It ripped the last vestiges of sleep from him like Sam's talking to him hadn't. Even Sam telling him that he was trading up the car, was going somewhere, it had not been enough of an incentive for him to shake off the comforting hold of sleep …until Sam walked out the door, the door softly shutting in his wake. And then it had hit Dean, not a resonating shout of '_alone'_ but instead one of '_not_ _together'_, separate, out of each other's sight…for the first time in days.

Rolling over to his side with a moan of pain, his arm bracing his ribs, Dean was reminded again that the pain in his head had tapered off but hadn't left, seemingly had no intentions of leaving for awhile. Forcing his heavy arm into motion, he scrubbed a hand over his face, felt the rough texture of more scruff than he liked, remembered that Sam had banged on the bathroom door and came barging into the small room before he had had a chance to even really take in his reflection in the shower steamed mirror the previous day, let alone contemplate shaving.

'_I'm surprised that wasn't one of Nurse Sammy's self assigned duties_,' he kidded, but felt guilty almost instantly, not when he knew his brother's actions had been out of concern for him, were no less than he would do for Sam if the positions were switched. And suddenly he wasn't bitter that their roles had been switched the past couple of days from protector and protected, leader and follower. Because at the heart of the matter, what hadn't changed was their brother status, was their uncanny ability to do for each other what they couldn't do, wouldn't do for anyone else, for even themselves.

"Crap, maybe I have watched too much Oprah," Dean growled aloud to the empty room, feeling foolish for qualifying his relationship with Sam, for making it seem like it wasn't just the run of the mill brother connection. '_Brothers just take care of each other, end of story. Don't turn this thing into one of Sam's Hallmark moments. You save Sam's bacon, he saves yours. Easy, simple, just the way it works_.'

Hoping to shut off his mind from ridiculing his foray into a chick flick moment, he rolled himself out of bed, wasn't prepared to almost fall to his knees as every muscle in his body ached and protested movement of any kind, caught himself by bracing his hands on the bed and the nightstand. Cursing, he slowly pushed himself upright, was ashamed at the way his arms trembled, only then remembering almost dislocating his shoulders trying to get Sam up from the cliff he was dangling over.

Finally standing, he cautiously squared his shoulders, winced openly and started to walk toward the bathroom, feeling like a hundred year old man. Wondered how he was going to shave when raising his hands was like trying to lift three hundred pound weights. And fought off the clench in his chest at the void in the room, of the space where Sam was supposed to be, at the absence at his shoulder where Sam had been for the past days, whether by his brother's choice or not.

The bitter part of him said Sam was out there joyriding, was deliriously happy to be away from him, to no longer be bound to him, by chains or circumstances. He didn't doubt that Sam loved him, that he didn't want him gone…but the question that always sprang to his mind was 'Did _Sam_ want to be gone?'

Sighing, Dean knew he would let Sam go in the end, wouldn't deprive Sam of any happiness. Had left Sam go to Stanford without a word of protest, had not called Sam again when his brother had made it clear that he wanted a clean break, had wanted a life separate from him. And he couldn't crowd Sam now with his presence, wouldn't demand more from Sam than he was willing to give, would give him what freedom he could with the lifestyle they lived, sharing the same space nearly 24/7.

At that thought Dean found a smile twisting up his lips and a short bark of laughter escaping him. The work camp had taught them the true meaning of being with each other 24/7. '_And we didn't kill each other….almost killed a few other people but we didn't kill each other. Maybe there's hope for us sticking together for the long haul after all.'_

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As Sam entered the motel room, the ploy that he had been rehearsing in his head to get Dean out to the Impala instantly died, was replaced by dread. Because, even before he checked the bathroom, he knew the room was empty, that his brother wasn't nearby. With his stomach feeling as if it had turned into a hard rock, it made him glad that he hadn't been able to justify sparing even three minutes to stop at the local gas station for coffee, to instigate any delay to his return to his brother.

'_Calm down, he couldn't have gone far, he __wouldn't__ have gone far_,' he reassured himself, stalking over to the nightstand, cursed when he found it void of a note with his brother's scrawl on it. When the small table turned up just as vacant, Sam swung around, scanned the room for clues to his wayward brother's whereabouts, unconsciously tapping his hand against his leg. He almost missed the obvious, knew that had been Dean's intent, to rub it in his face that he thought too much, couldn't be led by the simple things: like a stand up brochure blatantly sitting in the center of his bed. Stalking forward, Sam grabbed the advertisement with their hotel's logo, smirked as he read it.

"Complimentary continental breakfast served in our lobby from 6am to 10:30 am."

'_I should have known free coffee and food would resurrect him_.' Tossing the brochure carelessly back onto the bed, he headed out the door. Even as he negotiated the hallway, he told himself that it was the coffee and food that was drawing him to the lobby. That he certainly wasn't going there just to check on Dean, because Dean didn't need a babysitter, didn't need _him_ hovering over him. His brother had taken on ghosts and Wendigos and ex-military wackoes, he could manage grabbing breakfast without his little brother having his back.

But the swaying argument didn't deter Sam's path or slow his pace. And Sam admitted to himself that he was reacting to more than what Dean needed. That it was about what he himself wanted, what he needed, even if Dean would never see it that way.

Coming through the double doors that led to the lobby, Sam scanned the tables and counters laden with food to his right for his brother's familiar form. It took him a moment to spot his brother at a table, a table that Dean wasn't the only occupant of. As if some sensor had gone off in Dean's mind, Sam watched his brother's head come up, saw Dean's eyes find his instantly almost as if he had called Dean's name across the room. A smile broke out onto Dean's face and he raised his hand, beckoning his little brother over. Sam almost felt ashamed at how affected he was by his brother's wide smile of greeting, by Dean's eager invitation for him to join him and his lady friends.

Hoping that the spike of joy that was rippling through him at Dean's eager welcome wasn't reflected by on his face by a goofy grin or flushed cheeks, Sam approached the table. He could hear his brother introducing him just as the other occupants of the table forced their rapt attention from his brother to him.

"Well, here's Sam, now. Sam, I would like you to meet the girls," Dean drawled, his charm outweighed by the kindness in his eyes for his fellow breakfast patrons and his brother.

Sam saw the three woman, not a one of them, he would guess, younger than seventy five years old, nearly blush and giggle as his brother labeled them "girls". His eyes tracked to each woman as Dean introduced them, Sam gave them as a whole his well-bred boy smile and "Nice to meet you," greeting.

"Grab a seat, Sam and load up on the food," Dean jovially ordered, nodding his head back to the spread of food on the counter behind them.

"Alright," Sam said, snagging a vacant chair from another table and placing it beside Dean before he made his way over to the food. As he stacked the offerings onto his plate, he couldn't help looking over his shoulder at Dean, watching his brother interact with the women, not flirtatiously but kindly, as if their age was something he respected instead of ridiculed. Slipping into the chair at his brother's side, he felt all three of the ladies eyes slide to him, wondered what his brother had claimed them to be that day: astronauts, rodeo clowns, secret agents?

"So what did I miss?" he asked, shooting an exasperated look to Dean, wondering what he had gotten himself into by acknowledging that he even knew his brother.

"Well, your brother was telling us how he got to lookin' like something the cat wouldn't even drag in," the woman to Sam's right announced, eyes on Sam.

A quick worried smile made an appearance on Sam's face and he shot Dean a look, was surprised to see his brother looking decidedly uncomfortable, even shifting in his seat. That, in Sam's book, didn't bode well.

"If he hadn't been so kind to me…well," the woman to Dean's left began, a look to Dean, who was smirking but had his head bowed almost in embarrassment. Breaking into laughter, the woman continued, "If my grandsons ever showed up at my door looking as well used as he does, I probably wouldn't have left them in the house."

"'Specially Harry. That boy's a trouble magnet," the woman across from Sam interjected.

The woman to Sam's right instantly agreed before her sparkling eyes alighted on Dean again, "But he probably isn't half the trouble magnet you are. My Philip was like that, could find trouble taking out the garbage. I'm guessing, with your good looks, you could incite trouble in a church choir. "

Dean laughed at the implication, "Yeah, probably," he admitted, blushing, raking a hand through his hair with an 'ah shucks' expression Sam loved to see gracing his cocky brother's features.

His enjoyment distracting him, Sam was unprepared when the three ladies' attention swung back to him and the woman beside Dean spoke to him. "The way your brother tells it, you do your best to keep him out of trouble. According to him, he would look a lot worse if you hadn't shown up."

Blindsided by the second hand praise from Dean and floundering for the thread of the conversation that would tell him just where he had shown up at and why, Sam swallowed his pancake and looked askance to Dean. "Well, I…" he stammered but was saved as the woman across from him spoke.

"Bars are no place to get into arguments, you know. Full of men already three sheets to the wind, thinking that taking a swing at each other is the same thing as winning an argument…"

"Or boasting their ego.." the woman beside Sam snidely tossed out.

"Doesn't solve a thing, " the other woman continued. "Your brother could have been killed in that brawl. Remember Donny Parson?" she asked her friends, head swiveling between the two woman.

"Shame that was. He was only twenty two," the woman to Dean's right clarified, shaking her head sadly.

"Thought he was nineteen?" The other woman contradicted.

"No, that was Ted Nilton. Got crushed in that mill accident,"

As the woman debated who would have ended up marrying Ted if the poor man hadn't gone and gotten himself killed, Sam slid his gaze to Dean. Finding his brother was already looking at him, Sam exchanged a knowing smirk with Dean. Knew they had matching mischievous tinkles in their eyes as they listened to the ladies, wondered how long it would be until their own arguments started to flitter around like that.

It was another five minutes before the conversation left the past, settled back onto the present and the ladies made their exit, intent on making the first tour of the basket weaving company. Waving to the ladies and both brothers fighting off the instinct to blush as they were ordered to behave themselves, they sat there a moment in silence, taking note that not many people were taking up the hotel's free offerings, made them wonder if the sign outside saying 'vacancy' really meant 'vacant'.

"Soooo," Sam drew out the word, didn't even try to hide his smile. "I keep you out of trouble, huh?"

"Don't you recognize a con job when you hear it?" Dean denied, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe the naiveté of his little brother.

"According to you, I saved you from getting the tar beat out of you….by drunk men," Sam prodded, relishing having the rare ammunition to tease Dean.

"Ah…NO! Story was that you stepped in and saved me from killing the other guys," Dean fabricated, wondered why he had opened up to the elderly women, had praised Sam to them when he wasn't quite ready to praise Sam to his face. '_I'm getting more like Dad everyday,_' he thought, remembering how his father had always talked so proudly of his son that had gotten a full ride to Stanford, the son he had kicked out the family and said don't come back. '_Man our family's screwed up_,' but there was affection in that thought now instead of bitterness.

"Yeah, sure, that was the story, those ladies just got confused right? Didn't remember that you were the hero of the story?" Sam taunted, all the while knowing that the women had had it right, that his brother had painted him out to be quite the hero, knew as certainly that Dean had never foreseen the story getting back to his little brother.

"I'm always the hero," Dean cockily shot back, smile in place as he stood up, gathered his tray from the table and made his way toward the trash can. He didn't have to look over his shoulder to sense that Sam wasn't more than two steps behind him. He was turning around toward Sam, was opening his mouth to talk when one of the male hotel employees stepped into the breakfast nook and asked the small group of hotel guest gathered there, "Does anyone here speak French?"

Frowning at the unexpected question, Dean when he noted that the employee's name plate said 'Fred Front Desk' looked to the check-in area. There, talking in quiet conversation among themselves, conversation decidedly not being held in English, were two striking women. Smiling, Dean started forward, was unprepared to be stopped by Sam's grip on his arm.

"Dean, you don't speak French," Sam accused but an instant later doubt and a flash of hurt sparked in his blue eyes. "Do you?"

"Sammy, there are all kinds of stuff you don't know about me," Dean bragged, eyes twinkling as his smile morphed from charming to cocky.

"Yeah, wonder why," Sam mumbled, feeling again as if the connection he thought he had with Dean was an illusion, was all smoke and mirrors, that he would never be privy to the real Dean Winchester, would never earn that level of honesty from his brother. Seeing the confused look on Dean's face, Sam almost sighed, knew that he didn't want to endanger the connection he truly did have with Dean. "Seriously, Dude. French too?" he asked, fighting to accept that there were more secrets Dean had not shared, that there was more distance still to be bridged between he and Dean than he had realized.

Recognizing the hurt look in Sam's eyes, hearing the sadness in his brother's words, Dean spoke his next words with humbleness, almost shame, "Yeah, I know a few words." Seeing Sam draw in an unsteady breath at his revelation, Dean couldn't keep the smile from cresting as he unleashed his French vocabulary, "French fry, French Vanilla, French Bread." Waggling his eyebrows he added, "French kissing." Pointing to the beautiful women across the hotel lobby, he said, "Dude, for women that look like that, I'll find a way to communicate."

"Ah come on Don Juan," Sam laughed, shoving Dean past the French women, laughing hard as the women skittered out of his brother's path as if he were a dangerous criminal. "Apparently they can't see past your bad boy appearance like your other girlfriends this morning could," he kidded which earned him an elbow in the ribs but didn't hamper his laughter as, with a hand to his brother's back, he manhandled Dean out the lobby doors.

"Dude what are we doing?" Dean groused at finding himself outside, his brother's hand again latching onto his bicep, pulling him around the side of the hotel. But he stumbled to a stop at the sight of the Impala, its black paint gleaming in the morning sunlight. "My car!" he exclaimed. Slipping out of Sam's grip, he crossed the short distance to the Impala, greedily seeking the feel of the metal frame under his hands.

"Ah, baby, I thought I would never see you again," Dean murmured, running his hand lovingly over the car's roof before he turned to Sam who was leaning on the front panel of the car. "How?!" was all he could get out, was the only word he could formulate in reaction to his brother's gift.

"Bobby," Sam replied, not needing to give himself credit. It was enough for him just to see Dean's smile, to be able to restore something to Dean that his brother loved, had thought lost forever to him. When Dean's raised eyebrows beckoned for more of an explanation, Sam clarified, "Said he told them the car was evidence Agent Henricksen wanted impounded and that was it. He loaded her up and got out of there."

Stepping back from the car, giving it a sweeping once over, Dean faced his brother with a look of wonder and gratitude. "Sam…" he began, his voice hoarse with emotions, "…this..getting my car back for me…."

Not needing Dean to say the words, feeling like his brother's look said more than he deserved, Sam cut Dean off with one of his brother's own glib comebacks, "You're not going to hug me or anything are you?"

It only took Dean an instant to react. Landing a light punch to his brother's shoulder, he was unable to suppress the goofy smile he knew he was still wearing. Then, taking two quick strides forward, he opened the Impala's door and sank into the driver's seat.

Cursing himself for not foreseeing the inevitable, Sam leapt forward, wrapped his hands around the driver's side door before his brother could pull the door shut. As his brother's eyes shot up to him, his surprise slipping into protest, Sam worriedly began, a plea in the one word he got out, "Dean…." Because for all of his brother's display of cockiness and charm that morning, Sam wasn't fooled, knew Dean wasn't at 100, was barely cresting 50, shouldn't spend the day ripping around in the Impala.

After days of being a spectator to Sam's protective instincts when it came to him, Dean knew that expression on his brother's face only too well. "Lighten up, Sam. Driving is medicinal for me," he said with a smile that was supposed to sway his brother's opinion. Seeing that his tactics weren't having any effort on his brother, Dean appeased, "It's not like I'm gonna do the Cannonball Run or anything, Sam. I just need to take a drive to clear my head. I'm going stir crazy in that room." Seeing an easing in Sam's resolve, Dean said, "I'll be back before you're even thinking about lunch."

But Sam's weakening was derailed by Dean's last words, made the younger man realize that Dean meant to leave him behind, that he wasn't being invited to join his brother on his drive. That Dean meant to go it alone, wanted to not be with him. "Oh… Oh yeah, right," he stammered weakly, forgetting that a second ago he was the one deciding if Dean could go. "I'll just…be in the room," he said, throwing his hand over his shoulder in the vague direction that their room was in, "…doing research." But instantly he frowned as he remembered they weren't on a job, that there was no research to do. Not for the first time, Sam cursed himself for not being the consummate liar Dean was.

Reeling at Sam's transformation from protector to little brother, Dean was sharply reminded of a younger Sam, always wanting to tag along at his brother's heels. Saw the same look in Sam's eyes now as he had then whenever he intentionally left his little brother behind, chose to spend his time with boys more his own age.

Relinquishing his hold on the car door…on his brother, Sam shut the door, gave a tight lipped smile and turned back toward the hotel. The Impala's horn startled him, had him looking over his shoulder, eyes seeking out his brother.

Gaining his little brother's attention, Dean jerked his head to the right, toward the passenger seat. When his small gesture was rewarded with a huge smile from Sam, Dean couldn't fight his own urge to return the facial gesture. Tracking his brother's hurried motions until he sank down into the passenger seat, Dean didn't speak for a moment, simply met Sam's happy, relieved look. Understood then how wrong his earlier thoughts had been. Sam chose to be with him, to stay with him, not just when their survival depended on it, not because their lifestyle dictated it, but because he meant something to Sam, their relationship, strained as it was at times, was something Sam valued, treasured, wasn't willing to throw away..anymore than Dean was.

His stare having lasted too long, generating Sam's creased forehead and tilt of his head in silent question of 'what?', Dean shook his head, smile still in place. Then he brought the Impala to life, gripped his fingers around the steering wheel for a moment before he sent the car reeling backward, fishtailing around and bounding forward, laying down rubber as it grappled to be released.

The 1967 Chevy Impala took to the highway like a train took to tracks, seemingly maneuvering the road more than the road maneuvered it. With Sam at his side, the Impala under his hands and no road blocks ahead, Dean felt his world shift back together again. Shooting a quick glance to Sam, he saw the same look of contentment on his brother's face that he knew he was wearing.

They rode in silence for a few miles before a disturbing thought sprang to Dean's mind. Head turning to his brother, an anxious look in his eyes, he demanded, "You didn't tell Bobby about my whole Latin speaking thing, did you?"

"Course not," Sam scoffed but there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "You think I want him to know I have a geekboy as a brother?!"

Laughing, Dean ordered, "Shut up!" which only instigated matching laughter to erupt from Sam.

"No wait, its Scholarly boy, right?" Sam choked out in amusement.

"Sam…" Dean growled out in warning but Sam was only laughing harder, clutching his stomach.

"The look on everyone's faces when you were speaking Latin…" Sam shook his head, the memories that had terrified him before now humorous.

"It's not funny," Dean growled but Sam could hear the suppressed laughter in his brother's tone and when Dean shot him a look, his lips were twitching up into a smile. "Ok, so it's a little funny," Dean admitted, felt his connection to his brother tighten at the soft smile Sam bestowed upon him. Sam wasn't gone, didn't want to be gone, wanted to stay with him, even when he wasn't being funny at all.

Sighing contently, Sam leaned back against the Impala's seat, felt the last hold of his fear ebb away. Dean was Ok, he was Ok, they were together. And they were speaking the same language, knew in his heart that they always had been, even when they weren't speaking at all.

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The End!

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Thanks so much for sticking with this story through 22 chapters! I've had a lot of fun writing this tale and I really hope you enjoyed the ending.

I couldn't have written this story without every single encouraging word from your reviews. I've been horribly lax in replying to your kind words but you guys never let me down, someone always took the time to drop me a review that told me that the story should go on. Thanks for that!

And I always smiled in amazement when this story went on some of your favorite lists. Hope it stays as one of your favorites now that the last words been written.

I also want to thank everyone who put this story on their story alerts…it meant a lot that you were on the look out for the next chapter.

Thanks to everyone who took time out of their lives to read this story!

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.

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